


Audrey in Wonderland

by CotilleS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:38:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CotilleS/pseuds/CotilleS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Audrey Thompson has read herself into an alternate universe. A universe where Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and James Moriarty are real, not fictional characters. Needless to say, hilarity ensues. (Inspired by the Inkheart trilogy. Eventual Sherlock/OC romance.) *I do not own anything related to Sherlock and its characters, only my OC*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delusional Cat Lady

**Author's Note:**

> So I first posted this story on fanfiction.net about a year and a half ago, and have since been told by several people that I should upload it onto AO3. It is still in the works, I have posted nineteen chapters on fanfiction.net so far.  
> Now, this is my first and only attempt at writing a fanfiction so please bear with me; the first few chapters are a little..."amateur", for want of a better word...  
> I mean, it's not that bad, it's just not my best work. I plan on posting a new chapter a week.  
> Anyway, let me just explain the background of the plot: This story was inspired by the Inkheart Trilogy, where the main character has the ability to read herself into books. For the sake of the story, I had to change the Sherlock TV series into a book series. But all the characters and scenarios are the same.  
> Hope you enjoy and please tell me what you think!

'FOR FECK SAKE!' I cry out in frustration, staring miserably at my computer screen. The wifi in this apartment has to be the single most infuriating piece of nothing. I have a 3,500 word assignment due the next morning and the offending wifi is allowing me to get to _, hmm let's see_... _roughly 500 words_.

To say I'm in a bad mood is an understatement. I am in an _extremely_ very not good mood. My second semester in King's College was almost at an end, and I still felt more out of place here in London than if I was stranded on an island in the middle of the Pacific with all but meerkats to keep me company.

'At least the meerkats wouldn't make fun of my accent..' I grumble to myself. I felt like a complete pleb with my Irish accent, especially around the lah-di-dah, my-Bentley-is-bigger-than-yours (yes I did mean that as a euphemism), Made-in-Chelsea-wannabes who pratted around campus.

' _Right_.' I sigh, snapping my laptop shut. I'm getting nowhere with this essay, and certainly do not intend on spending the evening _willing_ the infuriating little yellow exclamation sign over the wifi icon to kindly _fuck the bloody hell off_. I haul myself from the couch and make my way over to the kitchen, stubbing my toe on the doorstopper in the process (cue colourful profanities), to make a cup of tea. I hobble back to my bedroom, to nurse my very nearly broken toe, grabbing my book on the way. I had recently become obsessed with the new Sherlock series. The books were a modern twist on Conan Doyle's works. Plus the more modern Sherlock was a total babe. Well, he was in my opinion, anyway. I settle into the pillows and soon become lost in the pages.

' _Heuheuheu_.' I chuckle. 'Catsby, hey Catsby listen to this.' The fat Persian cat napping at my feet lazily opens one eye. 'This is funny, listen:'

"You took your time."

"Yeah I didn't get the shopping."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine."

"You had a _row_   with a machine?"

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse."

I continued to chuckle until I hear "Have you got cash?" coming from the kitchen. I gulp, stopping mid-chuckle.

_Why does it sound like I'm not the only person in my apartment?_

"No, take my card." Another, deeper voice replied.

_Oh shit there are strangers in my apartment._

_This is it Audrey. This is day you die._

_Oh crap crapping crap. Okay, calm down, don't cry. I said_ don't cry _!  
_

I breathe deeply,fighting back the bubble of hysteria rising up my throat.

'Stop being so melodramatic and girly.' I whisper to myself. 'If I'm going down, I'm going down fighting.' I nod determinedly and scoop Catsby up into my arms. That way, any burglar daring enough to mess with me will have to go through Catsby and his claws first. Creeping towards my door, I gently grab the handle. This is it. Go hard or go home. I take a deep breath..

'I AM ARMED AND DEADLY!' I cry, wrenching the door open and charging at the intruders in my apartment.

Or should I say, not my apartment. Because the room I left twenty minutes ago was certainly not this one.

Two men turn to stare at me incredulously, one seated and one standing by the stairway.

'Sherlock' the shorter, grey-haired man says to the other, 'Who the bloody hell is this?'

The dark haired man turns to look at him. 'I should ask you the same thing, John.'

I look from one face to the other, realisation dawning on me. I swear to god I hear a bulb lighting up above my head.

_Sherlock? ..John?_

'Oh you have _got_ to be shitting me.' I utter, completely dumbfounded.

'Sorry, who are you and why are you standing in our living room?' John shakes his head in disbelief and looks down at my arms. 'With a cat?'

'My thoughts precisely.' Sherlock echoes, rising from his chair to stand in front of me.

'I..I..' I stutter, looking up into the piercing blue eyes staring into my soul. Good god he's beautiful. Dark, curly hair, cheekbones that could slice through brown bread and perfect, cupids bow lips.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. 'John, kindly escort this delusional cat lady out of the apartment.'

The little shit. Delusional? Cat lady?

'Now, hold on one bloody second.' I retort angrily. 'I was just in my room, minding my own business, reading my – Oh' I gasp, looking wide-eyed at both men.

'Oh my Jesus Christ our lord in heaven above and all the divine saints.' I whisper. 'I _read myself_ into the book. I'm _in_ the book!'

I look around excitedly, still clutching Catsby to my chest. '221B..I'm in 221B!' I dart past Sherlock, running over to the skull on the mantelpiece. 'The skull!' I exclaim happily.

'Yes, I'll thank you _not_ to touch my possessions' Sherlock snatches the skull from my hands, earning a quick biff to the hand from Catsby.

I eye him grumpily. 'Yeah, you're just as snarky as the book describes you.'

John steps towards me, smiling kindly. 'Come on, let's get you back to your own apartment.' He says slowly, as if addressing a mental patient.

'This _is_ my flat!' I insist. 'I live in number 1 Hyde Park!' I pause for a moment, placing a finger against my bottom lip. "At least, I did until I discovered I had the magical ability to transport myself into fictional novels."

' _Fictonal?_ ' John stares at me, bewildered. 'What on earth are you talking about?'

'You're not real! None of this is! You are characters in a story, a very popular one might I add.' I explain earnestly. They continue to eye me cautiously, as though I'm a volatile crack-head.

'Fine, don't believe me? Later on today you will find the body of one Eddie VanCoon, dead in his apartment. The police will think it is suicide, but he will be, in fact, shot through the head from outside his window. His assassin will be the one behind all the Black Lotus killings.' I raise my eyebrows in a _deduce-that-motherfucker_ sort of way.

Sherlock brings his hands to his face, thinking. He strides past me and into the kitchen. I turn around to face John, who's watching me sceptically. 'You realise you've just made yourself a prime suspect for the killings.'

Shit. Why did I say that? Damn my vexatious need to constantly sass people.

John looks over my shoulder, frowning at something. 'Sherlock what are you-'

Suddenly a hand snakes around my neck, tilting it upwards and I feel the cold, hard jab of a needle.

' _What th–_ ' I slur, unable to keep my balance. I topple to the floor in a heap, Catsby jumping out of my arms with a strangled hiss.

* * *

I struggle to overcome the heavy blanket of drowsiness pinning me to the floor.

'..necessary precaution.' I hear a voice say.

'You _drugged_ the girl, Sherlock! You know that's illegal, right?'

Woah, back the fuck up. He _drugged_ me? I squint my eyes, lifting my arm to shield them from the brightness.

'Ahh!' I gasp as a sharp pain shoots up my left arm.

Sherlock smirks. 'I wouldn't do that if I were you.' John looks up quickly and hurries over to take a look at it.

'Oh, for the love of – Sherlock, this is too far! You took a blood sample!?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I may need it.'

Oh hell no. What the actual almighty fuck?

I move to sit up, John helping me. I look at my bandaged arm, and then to Sherlock, and then back to my bruised, violated arm.

Oh, I was fuming.

I stand up, stumbling and walk towards him.

'Now listen here, you little fucktard, what the he-' I stop abruptly, my eyes darting around the room. 'Where's Catsby?'

'By Catsby, I assume you are referring to your cat. I locked him in the coat room.' Sherlock sniffs disdainfully.

'WHAT?' I yell, running to free the angry ball of fluff. I lovingly scoop him up into my arms, smirking as he hisses and spits at Sherlock.

I sit on the opposite sofa, both of us giving him the ultimate evils.

A staring match like none other ensues.

John sighs, breaking the silence. 'Well, you were right.' I look at him blankly. 'About VanCoon. Bullet to the head.'

Sherlock sits up. 'Yes, how did you know that?'

I laugh nervously. 'Ha ha ha …. Lucky guess?'

'Hardly.' Sherlock scoffs.

I narrow my eyes at him. 'Fine. I already told you how I got here. It's up to you whether you want to believe me or not.'

He raises his eyebrows. 'You honestly expect us to believe you "read yourself" into existence?'

'Yes.' I reply, as if stating the obvious.

Sherlock rises from his seat. 'I don't have time for this. Come on John. We're going to the Lucky Cat Emporium.'

My ears prick at this. Oh this should be fun.

'Can I come?' I ask innocently.

Sherlock stops, eyeing me suspiciously. 'Why?'

I shrug. 'Well I have nothing better to be doing.'

'Umm…No.'

John puts his arm up to stop him. 'Wait a sec Sherlock. She could be helpful. I mean, she was right about Van Coon.'

Sherlock pauses, refusing to face us.

'Fine.' He says eventually, wrapping his scarf around his neck and stalking out of the room.

John turns to me. 'What about your cat? Er...Catsby?'

'Oh he'll be fine here.' I assured him, petting Catsby on the head, who was now purring contentedly. 'He just sleeps for the day anyway. And don't worry, he's house trained.' I add encouragingly.

'O- kay..' John says warily.

We make our way down the stairs and into the taxi Sherlock had hailed.

'After you.' John gestures inside the car, raising his arm. I sit, slightly squashed, between both of them. Not the most uncomfortable situation to be in, I think mischievously, giving myself an internal high-five.

John speaks up, breaking the awkward silence. 'I don't even know your name! How rude of me.' He apologises.

I smile. 'Audrey, Audrey Thompson. I'm from Ireland.'

'Who would have guessed?' Sherlock mutters sarcastically.

I throw him a dirty look.

Wait a sec, what the hell am I doing just sitting here? This is Sherlock Holmes beside you Audrey, THE Sherlock Holmes!

I glance at him. 'So..Sherlock?' I do a little taptap-tap thing on his arm.

He turns to face me with a look not far off disgust.

'Will you..um..deduce me?' I bat my eyelashes at him. Oh you go girl.

He looks slightly taken aback, but agrees nonetheless.

'Right well first, stating the obvious, you are Irish. I'd say from the southern area; Wexford maybe? Your accent is from neither Dublin nor Western Ireland. You've moved here to attend University in London. You're from a wealthy background, judging by your decision to study here rather than Ireland. That's quite the commitment, financially of course. Perhaps UCL or Kings College? You have dark circles around your eyes - though this is common to most students - from looking at your laptop screen for extended periods of time. Your fingernails are cut neatly, which would suggest you spend an amount of time typing essays. So I'd say you're veering towards Humanities – English? Perhaps History? You're nineteen/twenty years of age and in your first year of University. You're sentimental, not used to living on your own, hence the cat. Your mother named you Audrey after the slight resemblance you share with Audrey Hepburn, though how she saw that in you as a baby, I'm not quite sure. You are a film fanatic, especially the classics, judging by your style of clothes – You're wearing an outfit almost identical to that worn by Mrs Hepburn herself in Roman Holiday.'

' _Woah._ ' I sigh, my inner fangirl swooning.

'So you think I look like Audrey Hepburn?' I asked sweetly.

'I said your face bears a _slight_ resemblance. Other than that you look nothing like her, you're too..' He gestures to my body '... _small_.'

I huff and turn away from him. Prat.

* * *

'Sherlock, you can't just break into someone's apartment.' I say, glancing around to check of anyone noticed him pulling the ladder down.

'Yes I can.' He proceeds to climb up said ladder.

I sigh. There's no use in trying. I know how the story goes anyway.

John however, is looking rightly pissed off.

'I'm not the first!' We hear a muffled shout coming from the window above.

'What?' John asks.

'He said he's not the first, there's been someone in there before him.' I explain.

Sherlock shouts down some more incomprehensible nonsense.

'What are you saying?' John looks up tiredly. There is no reply.

He sighs in exasperation. 'I'm wasting my breath.'

I nod sympathetically and pat his arm. 'How's Sarah?' I inquire.

John looks at me. 'Wha- How do you know about Sarah?'

I tap my head and give him a knowing look.

John stares back at me as though I'm a lunatic.

He sighs again and begins pacing the ground. ' _Anytime you want to include me!'_ He shouts up to Sherlock. ' _No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with ..._ '

Oh crap. Balls.

'N-No John, I really wouldn't say that.' I warn him.

'... _my MASSIVE INTELLECT!_ ' He finishes.

Shit. Too late.

I grab both his arms and turn him to face me. 'John, whatever you do, DO NOT order Chinese with Sarah after your date tonight.'

'How do you know I have a date?'

'Doesn't matter.' I cut across him. 'Promise me?'

'Alright.. I promise.' He replies, bewildered.

Moments later Sherlock emerges from the front door, massaging his neck. I smirk.

'The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago.'

'Somebody?' John asks.

Sherlock nods. 'Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her.'

'But how, exactly?'

Sherlock picks up a folded envelope. On the back of it is written:

SOO LIN  
Please ring me. Tell me you're OK.  
Andy

He unfolds the envelope and looks at the front of it. Printed in the bottom right hand corner is: NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM

'Maybe we could start with this.' Sherlock points to the envelope.

'Sherlock, you've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?' I ask him, feigning concern.

He glares at me and coughs. 'I'm fine.'

I snigger. Audrey 1 / Sherlock 0.

* * *

'So, tell me Audrey. If we are fictional characters that belong in a story, how does it end? Tragically, I daresay.' Sherlock inquires, leaning forward in his chair.

The little shit.

'Uh, I haven't read that far.' I lie, recovering from the feels. 'So does that mean that you believe me then?'

Sherlock casts me a haughty glance. 'I never had much time for stories, fairy tales. It's just silly nonsense.'

'Every fairy tale needs a good old – fashioned villain.' I mumble absentmindedly.

'What was that?' Sherlock asks sharply.

'Uh nothing.' I reply quickly. 'Just talking to myself.'

_Wow. Way to go Audrey. Now he'll think you're in co-hoots with Moriarty. CO-HOOTS_.

'Anyone seen Mrs Hudson? I was meant to move that dresser for her.' John asks from the doorway.

'Yes, come to think of it,' Sherlock says, sitting up. 'I haven't seen her since this morning.'

John glances at the stairway worriedly. 'You don't think something's happened to her?'

I frown. I don't remember the disappearance of Mrs Hudson being a chapter in the book.

'Only one way to find out.' I say and brush past John towards the stairs.

I push Mrs Hudson's door open, only to find the flat empty. A tea cup and saucer lay broken on the floor in the middle of the room, as though she had vanished into thin air and dropped them.

'There's no sign of a forced entry.' Sherlock observes from behind me.

Vanished. Thin. Air.

Oh crumbs.

I turn to look at John and Sherlock.

'I came in to the story..' I say slowly. ' _..and Mrs Hudson went out_.'

_~Meanwhile in the real world~_

'Well, at least she has good taste.' Mrs Hudson remarks as she observes the kitchen she suddenly found herself in this morning.

She checks the time. 'Six O' clock. I hope Sherlock has eaten something.' She bustles about the kitchen, locating a cup and the tea bags. 'That boy is much too skinny.' She mutters.

She sips her tea from a strange blue police box mug and sits gingerly on the sofa.

'Now, how do I get out of here?'


	2. Ten Points To Gryfinndor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I realise I said I'd post one chapter a week but, let's be honest, I'm not going to remember.   
> So, here's the first four. 
> 
> Four for you Glen Coco! You GO Glen Coco!

_"Poor Mrs Hudson..she must be so confused."_ I think as I root around the kitchen cupboards for something to feed Catsby. Preferably NOT human body parts. Finally, after battling my way through thumbs, blood samples and what looked like a jar of pickled eyeballs (don't even ask) in the fridge, I located a rather fossilised tin of tuna. I stick my head out the kitchen door, looking for Sherlock.

'Oi, this tin of tuna, is it okay to feed Catsby with? I mean, he won't contract some alien virus and...die?'

Sherlock, who had been researching my 'problem' (as he so kindly put it), looks up from his laptop, frowning. 'Our landlady has been transported to another dimension, grâce à vous, and right now you're more concerned about the wellbeing of your over-fed cat?'

Oh he did not just call Catsby fat. Someone hold my earrings.

'Okay, firstly, _Catsby is not over-fed._ Secondly, I am very concerned for Mrs Hudson and feel truly awful for sending an unsuspecting elderly woman to an alternate universe, but I have _no idea_ how I did it! And thirdly, is the tuna contaminated or not?'

Sherlock sniffs and resumes reading. _I'll take that as a no then._

'You know, I'm not being purposely useless.' I say as I gingerly inspect the contents of the tin for any sign of radioactivation. 'Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.' Content with my inspection, I begin spooning the mushy fish into Sherlock's favourite mug, sniggering as I do so. 'I mean, who knew my voice held such immense powers?'

Sherlock's back is turned to me but I can practically _see_ his eyes rolling. 'Well, I've found nothing of use on this incompetent thing.' He sighs and dramatically hurls John's laptop from his knees. 'Time for option two.' He rises from the armchair and into the kitchen, flinging the fridge open.

'What's that then?' I ask, now spoon-feeding a struggling Catsby, who gave his dinner one sniff and scarpered.

He remerges, holding a small a vile of blood between his index finger and thumb. 'DNA test. I think a trip to St. Barts is in order.' He says, and pockets the tube. Shrugging his coat on, he looks around the room. 'Where's John?'

I look up at him incredulously. 'What do you mean _where's John?_ You gave him tickets for some Chinese show thingy for his date with Sarah.' He continues to stare at me blankly. 'Literally just an hour ago.' I add.

'Oh, I see.' He bites his lip, thinking. 'Well, you'll just have to do then.' He decides and pulls me to a standing position. I yank my arm out of his, rubbing it. 'What? Why do I have to come?' I grumble, looking outside the window. 'It's dark and St. Barts will be closed by now!'

Sherlock grins wickedly. 'Not if Molly's still there.'

Anger flashes through me. 'Now listen here you little mudblood, Molly Hooper _does not deserve to be used.'_

'What is a mu-' I cut him off.

'I know the little mind games you play with her, complimenting her so you can inspect the newest batch of carcasses!'

Sherlock scoffs at this.

I stand up on tiptoe to reach his eye-level. Well, chin-level, but it was the best I could do. 'Not on my watch buddy.'

Sherlock narrows his eyes and detaches himself from my grip. 'I haven't faintest idea of what you're talking about.' He straightens his coat and flounces from the room.

* * *

'Hello Molly.' Sherlock loudly announces himself behind the unsuspecting girl.

She jumps and hits against the table, metal instruments flying to the ground. 'Sh-Sherlock! I didn't hear you come in!'

Sherlock had already strode past her and began setting up the microscope. I turn to face Molly apologetically. 'Sorry for barging in like this.'

'Oh no it's fine,' She waves me off. 'I'm u-'

'Used to it?' I finish for her. 'You know, I really applaud you for putting up with this git.' I sigh, catching Sherlock throwing me a look of utmost contempt. 'You go girl. Up top!' I raise my arm, grinning at her.

'Uh..thanks.' She says and awkwardly taps my hand with hers. 'Sorry, what was your name?'

'Oh,' I laugh, 'I'm –'

' _AUDREY._ ' Sherlock yells at me from across the room. I sigh and slowly make my way over towards him.

'What?'

'Hold this.' He hands me the vile containing my blood.

I smirk. 'Good luck trying to find anything on me. Pretty impossible since, technically, I don't actually exist here.' Molly looks up from her work, confused.

'What do you mean you don't exist?' She asks.

'Oh, I'm not from this world. I read myself here.' I explain.

'You..read yourself here?' Molly asks, disbelievingly.

'Yeah, it's you guys that don't exist. You're fictional.' I shrug. 'Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.'

'Yes, Audrey _you can shut up any time now._ ' Sherlock warns, not taking his eyes off the microscope.

I flip him off and turn back to Molly. 'I'm not crazy. Promise.'

An hour later and boredom has slowly begun to take over. I decide to see how long I can stare at Sherlock before he begins to sense my penetrating gaze.

The answer is a very, very long time.

God he's annoying.

Two cups of coffee and a pair of watering eyes later, Sherlock admits the inevitable.

'Nothing!' He exclaims. 'I can find absolutely _nothing_ wrong with you, your blood is perfect!'

'Aw, thanks babe.' I say, winking at him.

He clears his throat, grabbing his coat and pulling it back on. 'Can we go gatecrash John's date now?' I ask innocently.

Sherlock eyes me suspiciously. 'Does this happen in the book?'

I tap my nose, saying nothing. He yanks me up from the floor, none too gentle, once again and pulls me after him.

'Bye Molly!' I wave at her. 'See you soon. Oh and do me a favour? Don't go on any dates with Jim.' I add.

'Who's..Jim?'

I shake my head at her. 'Just promise!' I shout back as the doors close behind us.

* * *

'Actually, I have four in that name.' I hear the ticket manager say to John and Sarah.

'No, I don't think so. We only booked two.' John replies confusedly.

Oh Sherlock, you bad man.

'And then I phoned back and got one for myself as well.' Sherlock and I appear behind them.

John looks at Sherlock in disbelief.

'I'm sorry John, this wasn't my idea, it was all him!' I point up at Sherlock.

Sarah looks at us rather awkwardly.

'Hi!' I say, extending my hand. 'I'm Audrey.' 

'Er, hi.' She says, smiling nervously.

John and Sherlock continue in their silent staring battle.

'John,' Sarah touches his arm. 'I'm going to nip to the loo before the show begins.'

He smiles and nods at her.

'I'll come with.' I say, smiling over at Sarah.

The bathroom is quite small, so there's only enough room for one toilet. I wait for Sarah and awkwardly attempt to converse with her while she's still in there.

'Listen, when you go back to the flat with John after this, don't order any take away or anything that involves answering the door.'

She emerges from the bathroom, perplexed.

'How do you know I'm going to go back to his flat?' She asks, raising an eyebrow.

I grin. 'Course you will, John's a total 10/10 would watch again.'

She continues to look at me strangely. We exit the bathroom and begin our way up the stairs when I remember-

'Wait.' I pull her back, listening.

'What, what is it?' She looks back at me.

I continue to listen, waiting for-

'... while I'm trying to get off with Sarah!' I hear John exclaim exasperatedly.

'Okay,' I smile. 'Now we can go.'

She gives me a quizzical look, but gives no sign of having heard John.

_Oh Aud, you sly fox, you_.

Instrumental music begins as we enter the performance area. A figure emerges, wearing chainmail and an ornamental head mask.

' _Outfit equals on-point_.' I whisper. Sherlock turns back to look at me oddly.

The warrior-like figure holds his arms out to the sides and two men come over and start to attach heavy chains and straps to him, strapping his now-folded arms in front of him and then backing him up against the board and starting to chain him to it.

'Classic Chinese escapology act.' Sherlock leans forward and whispers to John and Sarah.

'Hmm?' John turns back to him.

'The crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires.' Sherlock explains.

He moves back and casts me a smug glance.

Eejit.

The woman dressed in traditional Chinese costume picks up a small knife and displays it to the audience.

Once again, to my undisguised annoyance, Sherlock leans forward and explains what is about to happen.

'She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl.'

Just as Sherlock predicted, the woman up to the sandbag and stabs it in the bottom, making a hole. He smirks at me.

' _Yeah, yeah, ten points for bloody Gryffindor_.' I mutter under my breath.

Just as the act is finished, and the man has freed himself from the chains, I notice that Sherlock has disappeared.

About time, he needs a good beating.

I sigh and check my watch, waiting. Five, four, three, two, one – On cue, Sherlock and the masked figure come flying out of the curtains, landing on the ground below. John is on the move immediately, charging at Sherlock's attacker.

I stay behind, watching and giggling like a crazy person.


	3. Leave Mulan Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer* I use a lot of film quotes when writing. Like, a hella lot.

As Sherlock and the masked figure continue to roll around on the floor, John makes a feeble attempt to intervene. Well, I'm sure he considered it a rather heroic act but, come on, look at the size of him. Evidently, this act of gallantry sends John flying across the room like a rag doll. A little, cute hedgehoggy ragdoll. A little, cute, hedgehoggy ragdoll with tiny – _Hold on a sec,_ I look around me, _Where the bloody hell is Sarah?_

I turn to catch sight of her long, blonde hair before she disappears amongst the crowd.

'Oh for the love of-!' I exclaim loudly, realising that it's now up to _me_ to save the day. Grabbing the stick that _the silly bitch_ should have used, I charge at the knife-wielding masked figure pinning Sherlock down.

'Hey! Over here you big horses ass!' The figure turns to face me and – _BOOM_ – I bitch slap him with the wooden pole. He falls to the floor, out cold.

I toss my hair, feeling invincible.

Oh hell yeah you go Aud look at you, you sexy Lara Croft you. _Ballsohardmotherfuckerswanna_ –

Sherlock pushes me aside and grabs the man's right ankle, pulling off his shoe to reveal a Tong tattoo. He then jumps up frantically and sprints to the exit.

'Come on, let's go!'

John helps me up and gives me an apologetic look. 

"Why does he have to _run_ everywhere?"

* * *

'They'll be back in China by tomorrow.' John says to Sherlock, as he pulls Catsby onto his lap and begins tickling his ears.

'No, they won't leave without what they came for. We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous.' Sherlock is seated at his desk, an array of photos, drawings and notes littering it.

All this time I'm silent, pondering the almighty mess I'm in _._

_I mean, don't get me wrong; I'm living the ultimate fan's dream. But, am I going a bit..mad?_

I bring my fingers to my temple, massaging the headache away.

_How is it possible that I can read myself into books?  And if I can read myself in, can I read something or someone else out?_

My thoughts are interrupted by ' _Argh!_ ' followed by a thump and an ' _Ow!_ ' as Sherlock flings a book behind him in outrage, hitting John on the head.

I sigh. _Well, someone's got to do it.._

I walk towards Sherlock and lean down over his shoulder, pointing to a photo of the brick wall with the ciphers painted on.

'The numbers are a cipher. Each pair of numbers is a word. Soo Lin had begun translating them.' I tell him and pat his curls. 'You're welcome.'

He looks at me in shock before jumping up and grabbing his scarf.

'Oh, we must have been staring _right_ at it!'

'At-at what?' John asks, confused.

'The _book_ , John. The _book_ – the key to cracking the cipher!' He brandishes the photo at John.

'Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk.'

And then he's gone, hurrying out the door.

'Look at him, nearly wetting himself with excitement.' I sigh, watching him run down the street.

John chuckles at this, walking towards the stairs.

'Where are you going?'

'To close the door,' John calls up, 'He always leaves it open.'

I scoop Catsby up into my arms, giving him a squeeze. He responds by swatting my cheek with his dumpy little paw.

'Hey now, don't be mea – ' I freeze, realisation slowly dawning.

_Bollocks._

I drop Catsby and race down the stairs, arriving just in time to see the intruder clobber John around the head with a pistol.

_Merde._

I turn to scramble back up the stairs but the man grabs my ankle, pulling me back. I attempt to fight back, though that's easier said than done when one decides to wear a classic, below-the-knee length 50's skirt and it bloody well just gets in the way. With one swift movement, the man hits me across the head. Then all I know is blackness.

* * *

When I regain consciousness, I'm sitting on a chair somewhere dark, wrists bound together with rope. A fire is burning in a dustbin behind me. I slowly raise my head, wincing as the bleeding cut on my temple smarts.

'A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket.' A voice says. I look up and see the same woman at the escapology show, though she is not dressed in her oriental costume. John is sitting on a chair to my right, wrists also bound.

'Chinese proverb, Mr Holmes.' The woman says to John.

John looks at her, startled. 'I..I'm not Sherlock Holmes.'

'Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.' She laughs humourlessly. She reaches down and pulls his wallet from his coat pocket. 'Debit, card, Mr. S Holmes.'

'Yes; that's not actually mine. He lent it to me.' John tries to explain.

As John continues to explain the accusations, I search my memory for how this plays itself out _. Okay, so just as John shouts "I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" Sherlock should appear and save the day. Okay, calm down, it'll be fine._

I look up abruptly as I hear the 'click' from the empty bullet. John's shaking, glancing at me with terrified eyes.

'Oi, General Shan. Leave Mulan alone, he's telling the truth.' I shout over at her.

She looks at me in surprise. 'Let's make a deal, shall we?' She looks back at John. 'Everything has a price in the West; and the price for her life is..' She walks towards me. '..information.' She looks at her men, one of whom now pulls the cover off the large object to reveal the crossbow which was used at the circus. An arrow is already loaded in it.

I gulp. Oh shit.

John looks at me, horrified. 'No, no _please_ , you've got to listen to me!'

Shan ignores him, advancing on me. She clicks her finger and points. Seconds later two men are at my side, lifting my chair over in front of the crossbow. Shan turns back to John.

'Where's the hairpin?'

'I..what hairpin?' John tugs at his bonds.

'I need a volunteer for the audience!' Shan exclaims. 'Ah, thank you, lady. Yes, you'll do very nicely.' She walks towards me.

'Please. Please, listen to me. I'm not ... I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You _have_ to believe me. I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for!' John cries out, panicked.

Shan reaches up and slits the sandbag. I watch as the grains fall out, each single one determining whether I live or die.

'Ladies and gentlemen.' She begins. 'From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death-defying act.'

'No, _no_ …please, _listen to me_!'

Shan laughs, placing a black orchid in my lap.

' _Would you bloody listen to him! He's not Sherlock Holmes_!' I finally cry out.

Shan observes me coldly. 'I don't believe you.' I begin to panic.

'You really should, you know.' Sherlock's voice echoes in the tunnel. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

'Took your sweet time, didn't you?' I shout back at him.

'I wouldn't be making those remarks if I were you Audrey. I'm not the one sitting opposite the crossbow.' He replies nonchalantly.

'How would _you_ describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?' He clicks the "c" on the last word.

'Late.' We both shout at him.

'That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second.' Sherlock remarks form the darkness.

'Well?' Shan asks, pointing the pistol.

'Well ...' Sherlock continues, darting out of the shadows to whack one of the men with a metal pole. The man grunts and falls to the ground.

'... the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit _anyone_. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you.'_ He bursts out of the darkness and runs to the nearby burning dustbin, kicking it over and extinguishing the light. Shan squints into the blackness, trying to find him.

I flinch as a hand rests on my shoulder. ' _Shh, it's me._ ' Sherlock whispers and begins undoing the rope around my wrists.

'No, Sherlock, watch out – ' I try to warn him, but the scarf is already wrapped around his neck, dragging him to the ground. As the men continue to struggle, I see John attempting to stand. This is an almost impossible feat, with his hands tied in front of him and attached tightly to the underside of the chair, and his ankles tied to the legs of the chair. Nevertheless he manages to stumble forward a couple of paces, half-carrying and half-dragging the chair with him, before he loses his balance and falls onto his side. I stretch my neck around to see that man is right behind me, his back turned to me as he continues to strangle a kneeling Sherlock.

'Oh screw this.' I mutter under my breath. 'Sherlock, keep him there!' I shout and look back at the sandbag, counting down.

'Three, two, one –' Just before the last second I throw all my weight over to one side, knocking myself and the chair over. The arrow zooms over my head and implants itself in the attacker's back with a soft _thud_.

John and Sherlock look at me in surprise. 'Once again, YOU'RE WELCOME.' I shout. 'Can someone please untie me? I'm getting rope burn.' I hear Sherlock chuckling as he works at the knot binding my wrists.

In the taxi home, a thought occurs to me. 'You guys, where am I going to stay? I have nothing - no clothes, no money.'

'Well, you'll stay with us then.' John looks down at me, smiling.

'John, I don't think you've thought this through.' Sherlock frowns. 'First of all, where is she going to sleep? And I don't know about you, but the last time I checked, I did not own any fun-sized clothes or undergarments.'

John rolls his eyes and sighs. I narrow my eyes at the dig.

'Hang on,' I stop and think. 'What if I could _read_ clothes out?'

* * *

'I'm sure you'll find something in here worth materialising.' Sherlock walks over to me with a book in hand. I glance at it. 'Breakfast in Tiffany's' by Truman Capote.

I smirk and look up at him. 'Why would you have this?' Sherlock ignores the question.

'Well, go on then.' He says impatiently.

I leaf through the book, looking for something small, easy…Ah. _Gotcha_. I clear my throat and begin reading;

_The instant she saw the letter she squinted her eyes and bent her lips in a tough tiny smile that advanced her age immeasurably._

I stop reading and glance around. I could hear whispers, sort of…echoing the words. I see Sherlock watching me intently. Shaking my head, I continue;

_"Darling," she instructed me, "would you reach in the drawer there and give me my purse. A girl doesn't read this sort of thing without her lipstick."_

A soft clatter turns all our attention to the kitchen. There, laying on the table, is a small, black cylindrical object. I walk over and take the lipstick in my hands, staring at John and Sherlock in astonishment.

'So it's true.' Sherlock breathes, utterly flabbergasted for once in his life.

* * *

I sit contentedly inspecting my newly (and possibly illegally??) acquired clothes.

'Hey, Sherlock?'

'Hmm?' He replies, not looking up from his book.

'...Are you using your bed tonight?' I ask sweetly. He looks up now.

'What day is it?'

'Thursday.' I reply

'No, you can have it tonight.'

'Are you sure? I don't mind sharing.' I say and blush, realising how weird that sounds. 'No, not like that. I mean in a two-friends-chillin-on-a-bed sort of way.'

'No, but thank you.' Sherlock seems unaffected by my words.

I lift a sleepy Catsby into my arms and make my way to Sherlock's bedroom. His room, unlike the living area and kitchen, is spotlessly clean. The bed doesn't even look like it's been slept in.

'No cat in the bed!' I hear Sherlock call to me.

'Kay.' I shout back, tucking Catsby under the covers and snuggling in beside him. I drift off almost immediately.

' _Audrey…Audrey_.' I feel a gentle prod on my shoulder.

'Wha-' I wake up, startled.

'Shh, it's just me.' Sherlock sits down on the bed beside me as I prop myself up.

He remains silent, just looking at me. 'So…come here often?' I ask, breaking the silence.

He leans in, face inches away from mine. 'Tell me.' He says. 'Tell me how it ends; how we end.'

I breathe in and study him. There is no way am I telling him. _No_ _way_. 

'Sherlock,' I say softly, 'We're not meant to know how our lives end. When it's time to go, we go.'

'I know, _but you can tell me_.' He replies urgently.

Oh god. _Your best poker face Aud, your very best!_

'Sherlock, I told you, I haven't read that far.' He narrows his eyes. 'You're lying.'

Shit. He's too clever for his own good.

He grabs my wrists tightly, eyes flashing. ' _I need to know_ , _Audrey. Or else I'll go mad_.' I wince and twist my hands in his. 

'Sherlock, _let go. You're hurting me_.' I whisper, my voice wobbling.

The fire in his eyes instantly diminishes, and he releases my hands. He sighs and stands up to leave.

'Goodnight, Audrey.'


	4. Who's Dorothy?

'Oh, it just doesn't make sense.' Mrs Hudson huffs, squinting at the computer screen. She had spent the better half of the day trying to deduce where she was and exactly _how_ she got there. So far, she had come up with nothing. Nada. Zilch. 'No 221B? How can there be no 221B?' She mutters, pushing her reading glasses further up her nose. But that's the thing; there is no 221B. At least, not in the real world anyway. No 221B, no Sherlock Holmes, no John Watson and _no Mrs Hudson_. Suddenly, the shrill ringing of a mobile sounds behind her. 'Oof!' Mrs Hudson jumps, hitting her funny-bone on the table corner. She walks to bed in the centre of the room and gingerly picks up the phone. 'Oh, it's like Sherlock's…a touchy one.' She violently swipes her finger across the screen, nearly dropping the phone in the process.

' _H-hello?_ ' She whispers tentatively.

' _Hey Aud._ ' A man answers.

' _Sherlock? Is that you?'_

' _What? No Aud, it's Dad!'_ Mrs Hudson glances at the phone and then places it back to her ear.

' _A-Aud? Who is Aud?'_

' _Audrey, what's goin' on?'_ The man asks, confused.

' _I'm not Audrey, I-I'm Mrs Hudson.'_

The man laughs jokingly. ' _Oh, sorry didn't realise I'd called 221B'._

Mrs Hudson starts. _'Did you just say 221B? Yes, yes I'm Mrs Hudson from 221B! How did you know?'_

There is a pause.

'… _Mrs Hudson, where's Audrey?'_ The man asks carefully.

' _Oh I don't know how got here, all I remember is sitting down to drink my morning tea and woosh! The room started spinning and I woke up here!'_ Mrs Hudson replies tearfully.

There is another long pause, then;

' _Shit.'_ The phone disconnects and Mrs Hudson just stares at it. 'Well that was a bit rude.'

* * *

I crack my eyes open and smile as I come nose to nose with Catsby's bleary-eyed sleepy face. ' _Good morning sunshine_.' I whisper and peck the little pink bud. I stretch, cracking my shoulders, and sit up.

And then I remember I'm not in my own apartment.

'Ugh _merde_.' I groan and roll out of the (extremely comfortable) double bed. 'We're still here Catsby.' I wander into Sherlock's adjoining bathroom, my feet pattering on the cold tiles. Pulling my dark brown hair into a messy bun on top my head, I root around the cupboards for a spare toothbrush. Amazingly enough, I spot one in a matter of seconds. I shake my head, glancing around at the immaculately clean bathroom. ' _Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes_?' I mutter.

Strolling back into the bedroom, I grab my dark purple dressing gown hanging from the wardrobe. It is a heavy, Victorian - style, lace gown, with deep gold fringing and a court train trailing behind. Pulling it on over my white cotton nightdress, I twirl around in my room for a bit. _Aw, I'm like one of those Jane Austen tarts._

' _Heeeeathcliff!_

_It's meee Cathyyy I've come hooome_

_I'm so co-o-o-oold!_

_Let me in you wiiin-'_

_BANG!_

'GAH!' I shout, startled into silence by what sounded _very_ like a gun shot.Racing out the door, I sprint down the hallway and into the living room, only to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa, lazily twirling a pistol in his hands.

'Bored!' He takes aim and fires another bullet into the wall.

I jump back, covering my ears. 'Oi! What's the wall ever done to you?' Sherlock glances at me, then does a double-take.

'Where'd you get that?' He asks, taking in the excess of purple and gold lace trailing behind me.

'Bram Stoker's Dracula.' I reply, twirling on the spot. 'You like it?'

He snorts. 'It's ridiculously over-sized.'

'… _You're ridiculously over-sized._ ' I grumble, flipping the switch on the kettle. I notice Sherlock eyeing up an un-bullet-riddled part of the wall.

'Ah-ah-ah!' I scold, standing over him. 'Give me the gun.' I demand, stretching my hand out.

'Or what?'

'Or I'll sit on you.' I warn.

He rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, like that's going to – _oof_!' I plop myself down on his stomach, careful not to be too gentle.

'You're lucky I'm small.' I tell him. 'Cos if I wasn't, you'd probably be coughing up your innards by now.'

He winces, but I refuse to move. 'Give me the gun.'

'No.'

'Look, John's going to get really angry and he has nowhere to stay tonight when he storms off since that Sarah did a runner.' I explain to him. He continues to stare sulkily at me. I continue to smile sweetly at him, swinging my feet.

He sighs and hands me the pistol. Taking it, I pull the magazine out and drag the slide back with a sharp _snap,_ watching as the bullets fall to the ground.

Sherlock looks mildly impressed. 'Where did you learn how to do that?'

'You ever seen Love/Hate?' I ask.

He shakes his head.

'Google it.'

Sherlock sighs and brings his hands up under his chin in a steeple position.

I'm still sitting on him. I wish I had brought my tea. Damn.

'Was I right?' He suddenly asks me.

'Bout what?'

'In deducing you? Did I get everything right?'

I narrow my eyes, trying to remember what he said. 'Well, I'm from Waterford, so you got the bit about the south right. I'm 21 years old - I took a gap year after my exams. I go to Kings College..' I list the deductions off on my fingers.

He nods. 'And what do you study?'

'French and Film Studies.' I lean back against the chair, getting comfy.

' _French_ , not English. Dammit.' He murmurs. 'What's your mother's maiden name?'

'Dubois. Why?' I respond.

He suddenly sits up and I'm jerked backwards. 'Ah she's French! _That's_ why you're named Audrey.'

I smirk, grabbing onto his shoulders and pulling myself upright. I didn't want to correct him when he'd said I resembled Audrey Hepburn.

'Hey Audrey, I got your –' John walks in, stops, and stares at the two of us.

My eyes widen. Oh god, what must this look like?

Me, sitting across Sherlock, arms wrapped around his shoulders, his face close to mine.

That's what it looks like.

John glances behind him and then back to us.

'Er…Did I miss something?'

I hastily slide off Sherlock's lap. 'Well, you missed Sherlock assaulting the wall with this pistol.' I pull it from my pocket. 'And you missed me sitting on Sherlock cos he wouldn't give me the gun.' I shrug, 'That's about it.'

'What time is it?' Sherlock calls from the sofa.

'Er,' John flips his hand over and checks his old army watch. 'Its three pm.'

' _What?'_ I exclaim. 'You mean I slept in until two? That's the latest I've ever...' I trail off, looking out the window.

Oh crap.

' _EVERYONE GET DOWN!_ ' I shout, pulling John with me. Sherlock rolls from the sofa and onto the floor, just before the whole apartment is hit with the impact of the explosion.

* * *

'Ugh.' I groan, nudging the shards of broken glass with the toe of my shoe. The windows had been completely shattered by the force of the blast. 'No, Catsby!' I catch him slinking around the sofa out of the corner of my eye. Running over I scoop him up. 'Mon chouchou.' I coo, 'You'll hurt your petites pattes and Maman would be so sad.' I rub my face against his.

Sherlock, who had been experimenting in the kitchen, makes a noise of disgust.

I throw him a dirty look and tuck Catsby under my arm.

'I'm taking Catsby for a walk.' I announce. 'John, where's the nearest park?'

'Hmm?' John looks up from his laptop. 'Oh, Queen Mary's is just down the road.'

'You're going to walk around London with a cat?' Sherlock smirks.

'Yes.'

'With him in your arms like that?' He points to the purring Catsby.

'Problem?'

He rolls his eyes and returns to his bubbling concoctions.

* * *

'Audrey Thompson.' A tall, sandy-haired man slaps three photos onto the mahogany desk. 'Half-Irish, half-French. Twenty-one years old. No idea what her connection with Sherlock Holmes is, but she seems to be staying with them.'

The dark haired man sitting behind the desk studies the pictures of the small, brown-haired girl holding a cat. He grins wickedly.

'Thank you, Moran. That will be all.' The tall blonde man leaves the room.

'Now, angel face.' He strokes the photo. ' _Who_ are you _?_ '

* * *

As I trudge back up the stairs, I spy a sticky note attached door.

_Audrey_ , it reads

_Was called in to hospital to cover for Dr Smith._

_Won't be back until late._

_Try not to kill Sherlock._

_John_.

I chuckle and open the door. Sherlock's talking to himself.

Again.

'You know Sherlock, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.' I sing-song and prance into the living room, stopping abruptly when I realise he _wasn't_ talking to himself.

'Mycroft, this is Audrey Thompson.' He motions to where I'm standing.

Ohh _Mycroft!_

The thin, balding man rises from John's seat to shake my hand.

'It's a pleasure, Mrs Thompson.' He smiles tightly. 'If you don't mind me asking, who are you?'

'Oh, I –'

'She's Mrs Hudson's niece.' Sherlock interrupts me. I give him a look.

Mycroft doesn't look convinced, but remains silent nonetheless. He turns his attention back to Sherlock, who is absentmindedly plucking the strings of his violin.

'I can't.' Sherlock says.

' _Can't_?' Mycroft questions.

'The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time.' I look at him in disbelief.

'Never mind your usual trivia.' Mycroft says tiredly. 'This is of national importance.'

Sherlock sulkily flicks his fingers across the strings. 'How's the diet?'

Mycroft ignores the insult. ' _Fine_. Perhaps _you_ can get through to him, Audrey.'

I look up from sweeping the rest of the glass shards into the bin. 'Hah! Fat chance of that.' I say incredulously.

'If you're so keen, why don't _you_ investigate it?' Sherlock inquires.

'No-no-no-no-no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so ...' Mycroft trails off, leaving Sherlock eyeing him suspiciously.

'So...Audrey, is it a short stay?' I glance over at Mycroft before answering him.

'Uh…Well I just decided to take a year out of college and…travel, I suppose. I'm staying here with my Aunt for the time being.' I try to smile confidently.

'Strange..' Mycroft ponders. 'I never knew Mrs Hudson had family in Ireland.'

'Second cousin, once removed.' Sherlock cuts in. 'It's not important.' He says, waving his hand.

'Yeah.' I agree, bending down to pick up the remainder of the glass. 'We never really – Agh! ' _Shit!_ ' I swear, cutting my palm on a sharp edge. I clench my hand to stop the blood flow and dash to the sink.

'Is it deep?' Sherlock appears behind me.

I wince, not wanting to look. 'Uh, I dunno.'

'Let me see.' He takes my hand and inspects the wound. 'There's a first aid kit in my bathroom. Go wipe it with the antiseptic and then cover it with a plaster.' He instructs.

**(Switches to third person)**

'Now, who is she _really_ , Sherlock?' Mycroft asks once Audrey's left the room.

'She's who she said she is.' Sherlock replies stubbornly.

Mycroft laughs humourlessly, shaking his head. 'Don't lie to me, Sherlock. It's painfully obvious.'

Sherlock ignores him.

'Pretty little thing, isn't she?' Mycroft continues to watch Sherlock. 'A bit young.' He adds.

Sherlock throws him a look of contempt.

'Stay out of it, Mycroft.'

**(Switches back to Audrey's POV)**

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Was that antiseptic or plain salt water?' I proclaim loudly as I make my way back to the kitchen.

He smirks. 'No, just one of my own creations.'

' _What_? Sherlock, _I swear to God_ if I wake tomorrow with an extra limb I'll – '

'Ahem.' Mycroft coughs from John's chair. 'Well, I'd best be off.'

'Oh really. So soon?' Sherlock says in a dull, monotonous voice.

Mycroft turns to me. 'Until next time, Mrs Thompson.' I smile and wave, ignoring Sherlock's threatening stare.

Once I hear the front door shut, I round on Sherlock. 'Why did you lie?' He quirks an eyebrow. 'Well,' he says, 'I don't know about you, but I'd prefer _not_ to be carted off to the mental asylum.'

I open my mouth to shoot back a witty retort, but before I can say anything, Sherlock's phone rings.

'Sherlock Holmes.' He listens for a moment, then his expression changes. 'Of course. How could I refuse?' He ends the call and heads for the door. 'Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?' He looks back at me.

I hesitate. 'Uh..okay. If you want me to.'

* * *

'You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones.' Lestrade asks Sherlock as he strides down the corridor.

'Obviously.'

'You'll love _this_. That explosion ...' Lestrade glances behind and _literally_ just notices me. 'Oh, hello. Who's this then?' He looks at Sherlock.

'Lestrade, Audrey. Audrey, Lestrade.' Sherlock introduces us without looking back.

Lestrade smiles warmly at me, shaking my hand. 'Nice to meet you Audrey.'

'You too.'

Oof look at that silver fox _go_. I was certainly _not_ expecting Lestrade to be as handsome as he was.

Dayum.

He's one of those men that get better with age - You know, like a fine wine or something. There was just something so _calming_ about his voice…I mean, nothing comparedto Sherlock's velvet voice of sex but I wouldn't mind him try –

'Audrey!' Sherlock clicks his fingers in front of my face.

'Huh?' I snap out of my inner fangirling. 'Did you ask me something?'

'The letter.' He says, pointing to the envelope on the desk. 'Is it okay to open?'

'Oh, yeah go ahead. They've already X-rayed it and checked for booby-traps anyway.'

Lestrade frowns and looks from me to Sherlock. 'How did she -?'

'Nevermind.' Sherlock snaps. Nice stationery. Bohemian.'

'What?' Lestrade asks.

'From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?'

'No.'

Sherlock looks closely at the writing. 'She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib.'

'She?' Lestrade questions again.

'Obviously.' Sherlock and I say at the same time. Lestrade rolls his eyes.

Sherlock picks up a letter opener from the desk and carefully slits the envelope open. He looks inside and his mouth opens a little in surprise as he reaches in and takes out a pink iPhone.

'Same pink phone.' I comment.

'What, from the Study in Pink?' Lestrade question.

'Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like ...' Sherlock stops as he realises what Lestrade just said. He turns to face him. At the same time, Donovan walks into the room to put some files down on a desk near the door.

Sherlock looks at him incredulously. 'The Study in Pink? You read his blog?

'Course I read his blog! We _all_ do. D'you _really_ not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?' I cover my mouth to hold in my laugh, but a giggle escapes.

'Who's Dorothy?' Donovan asks, looking over at me. I scowl at her.

Okay, it wasn't _exactly_ an insult because I _was_ actually wearing the red slippers I'd read out of _The Wizard of Oz._ With a matching red dress. And a red bow pulling my hair back from my face. But _apart from that_ , I looked perfectly normal.

Lestrade frowns at her. 'Sally, this is _Audrey_ , Sherlock's friend.'

' _Friend?_   She scoffs. 'What, did he follow you home?'

'Hmm,' I put my finger on my chin, pretending to be thinking. 'I wouldn't say followed, no. It was more of a _stalking_ thing at first. But I got fed up with it and when I confronted him, he kidnapped me and locked me in the basement where I've been living for the past year and a half now.' She opens her mouth to say something, but I continue. 'But then, sparks began to fly and I found myself falling for him.' I stare at Sherlock dreamily, who quirks an eyebrow in amusement. 'Oh well, that's Stockholm syndrome for you. What can ya do?' I shrug my shoulders.

Donovan throws an uneasy glance at Lestrade and briskly exits his office.

I lapse into a fit of giggles, ' _Did you guys see that_?' I wipe away tears. 'Oh god I'm hilarious.' I glance up to find Lestrade staring at me uncertainly. 'I was _joking_ , Greg.'

He laughs, but then stops abruptly to look down at me again. 'How do you know my na – '

'It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new.' Sherlock interrupts him. He checks the connection sockets for scratches.

Sherlock switches the phone on and immediately gets a voice alert. The message plays but there is no voice – just the unmistakeable sound of the Greenwich Time Signal.

'Is that it?' Lestrade looks disappointed.

'No. That's _not_ it.'

A photograph has also been uploaded to the phone. Sherlock opens it and Lestrade peers over his shoulder. The picture is of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall. The wallpaper is peeling and there's a tall mirror propped up in one corner.

'What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!' Lestrade cries out exasperatedly.

'It's a warning.' Sherlock explains, gazing thoughtfully. 'Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going happen again.'

He briefly looks down at the photo again, then brandishes the phone at us as he starts to leave the office. 'And I've seen this place before.'

Lestrade grabs his coat and hurries after him. 'Hang on. _What's_ gonna happen again?'

'BOOM!' I shout and turn back to Lestrade, grinning.

'Yes, my exact sentiments, Audrey.' Sherlock calls back.

* * *

We congregate outside 221C.

'The door's been opened recently.' Sherlock observes, looking at the keyhole.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock slowly pushes open the door to the living room and walks inside. The room looks exactly as it did in the photograph on the phone with one exception: there is a pair of trainers placed neatly in the middle of the floor, their toes pointed towards the door.

Lestrade stops and looks at them before stating, 'Shoes'.

'Yes, thank you for that _enlightened_ snippet of information, Lestrade.' I look up and pat Greg's arm apologetically.

Sherlock stops for a moment, then continues slowly towards the trainers. He crouches down, then puts his hands on the floor and leans forward. Lowering his body down he moves closer to the shoes and, just as his nose is almost touching them, a phone rings. He jumps, closes his eyes momentarily and then stands up, pulls off his glove and takes the pink iPhone from his coat pocket. He pauses for a second, then answers the phone.

" _Hello?"_ He says, softly  
 _"H-hello ... sexy."_ It's woman's voice.  
 _"Who's this?"  
"I've ... sent you ... a little puzzle ... just to say hi." _I can hear the tears in her voice. _  
"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"  
"I-I'm not ... crying ... I'm typing ... and this ... stupid ... bitch ... is reading it out."_ __  


I stare at the phone in Sherlock's hand, almost shaking with fury. In my excitement, I had completely forgotten about the maniac that is Moriarty.

Now he was here. The danger is _real_ this time.

" _The curtain rises."_ Sherlock whispers. _  
"Twelve hours to solve ... my puzzle, Sherlock ... or I'm going ... to be ... so naughty."_

* * *

'Audrey?' Sherlock leans against the kitchen island while I stir my cup of tea.

'Mmhmm?'

'I trust you know about Moriarty?'

Aw _crap_ , not this again. I keep my back turned, hoping he doesn't see my expression change. 'Uh.. Yeah, I've heard of him.'

'So you know how dangerous he is?'

I sigh, giving up on hiding my face. 'Yes...He's a maniac. An actual _psycho_.'

'Then I hope you'll understand when I say it's not safe for you to come with John and I on the cases. At least, for the meantime.'

I stare at him. 'Oh no, do _not_ give me that "you're too small and girly" bullshit. I am _perfectly_ capable of defending myself, thank you very much! You should see me, I'm like freakin' Natasha Romanoff - '

'Yes, yes alright!' Sherlock sighs, interrupting my rant. 'It's just, you're a _perfect_ target for Moriarty.'

'Sherlock,' I say, holding his gaze. 'You need to trust me. I know exactly how this plays out.' I smile, tapping my head. 'I'm always one step ahead, remember?'

He inclines his head. 'Fair point. But _no_ more walks with Catsby, okay?'

I smile wryly. 'Sherlock Holmes are you, dare I say it, _concerned_?'

He narrows his eyes and scoffs at me. 'The only thing I'm concerned about is _you getting in the way_.' And with that he stalks form the room.

... Wanker


	5. Je Ne Comprends Pas

* * *

Mr. Thompson sighs and drags a hand across his weary face. Of course this was bound to happen. How could it not? He had it, his Mother had it, Grandad Niall had it ... But _why_ did it have to be _now?_ After all those times he told her not to read aloud – making up excuse after excuse. And now, when she needed him the most, he was stuck worrying in a small cottage in the _back-end_ of nowhere. (i.e Ireland).

He had read a few of those books himself, he knew the danger Sherlock Holmes faced _every_ single bloody day. And Aud was so small, oblivious to the 'bad things' happening around her. Ever since Camille's accident she'd been so –

_No_. Mr Thompson stands and strides towards his front door. _He wasn't going to lose both of them_.

* * *

'Why do I have to help you? Why can't John? He's your trusty blogger - He's Juan the Magnificant. The Juan and only. Juan of a - '

'YES. I _get_ it.' I stuggle as Sherlock pulls me through the doors of the lab in St. Barts.

'You know why you're here.' He sets the muddy trainers down. 'And right now, you're of much more importance to me than John is.' He snaps a pair of latex gloves over his hands.

I glance around the white room nervously. _Oh crap this is not going to be good_. The door of the lab opens and I jump, knocking a Bunsen Burner to the floor.

'Nice to know you think so highly of me.' John smiles sarcastically at Sherlock.

Sherlock ignores him, turning to face me instead.

' _What_ has gotten into you Audrey? I mention St. Barts and you practically break down in tears.' He eyes me suspiciously.

'Eh..' I reply shakily. 'No, it's nothing ... I'm just a bit tired is all.' I reach down to fix the burner, hiding my face. Whatever you do Aud, you _cannot_ give yourself away. You don't know what the consequences of changing a storyline are. _Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut._

Sherlock's phone trills another text alert. 'Pass me my phone.'

John looks around the room. 'Where is it?'

'Jacket.'

John straightens up slowly, his entire body going rigid in disbelief and I can't help but snigger. Turning to his right, he marches stiffly around the table, slams one hand onto Sherlock's shoulder and roughly pulls his jacket open with the other as he starts to rummage in his inside pocket.

' _Careful._ ' Sherlock warns, still not looking up from the microscope.

I have now begun to tap my fingers on the desk, getting into to character. 'Be the mute. _Be_ the mute.' I whisper.

'Audrey, if you don't stop drumming your fingers on the table I'm going to erode them away in that beaker of _very corrosive_ hydrochloric acid.' Sherlock states matter-of-factly.

'Wha – Steady on there Walter White.' I clasp my hands together.

'Since you appear to have nothing better to do, go get me a coffee. Black two – '

'Black, two sugars. Yeah I know.' I sigh and slide from the stool. Opening the lab door I turn my head from the left to the right.

And then left again.

And then right.

Satisfied with the reasonably empty corridor, I peg it to the coffee machine. Judging by the book, if I take another 5 minutes getting the coffee, I should be able to miss him. I empty the contents of two sugar sachets into Sherlock's coffee. Checking my watch, I grab the cup and slowly make my way back towards the lab. Peeking my head through the small glass window, I scan the room.

It's just Molly. He must have left. Slowly pushing the door open I –

'Do you need a hand with that?'

'Gah!' I shout and drop the two cups of coffee. Turning around I find myself staring into the darkest eyes I've ever seen.

Like, _Johnny Depp_ dark.

Unfortunately, the door was still propped open with my leg, so Molly, Sherlock and John were all witness to this spectacular fuck-up.

'Jim! Hi!' Molly waves at him."Jim" takes his eyes from mine to grin at Molly. 'Come in! Come in!' She ushers him inside the room.

Sherlock looks over at her briefly, running his eyes down her body and apparently making an instant deduction, then looks back into the microscope. 'I hope that's not my coffee running down your leg, Audrey.' I scowl and attempt to brush the dark liquid from my black leggings.

'Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.' Molly introduces him.

'Ah!' "Jim" smiles.

_You can wipe that smirk off your smug face "Jim". What kind of a name is Jim anyway? A stupid one, that's what. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE_.

John turns towards them, and Molly looks at him blankly. 'And this is, uh ... sorry.' I can see John literally fighting with himself to keep his eyes from rolling. 'John Watson. Hi.' Molly smiles awkwardly and turns towards me. 'And then we have Au-'

'No.' I blurt out before I can stop myself. All four heads turn to look at me in bewilderment.

' _Uh …_ _Je suis désolé, je ne parle pas l'anglais. Je suis française_.' I cringe inwardly.

Molly opens her mouth to speak. 'Wha –'

' _Audrey. Audrey Dubois_.' I smile tightly.

"Jim" grins, flashing perfect pearly whites, and looks back at me. 'Yes, I must thank you for spilling hot coffee down my leg. ' He laughs jokingly, extending his hand.

I take it and narrow my eyes. ' _Je vous en prie, Monsieur Mo_ –'

I catch myself just in time.

Moriarty, however, does not fail to notice. His hand squeezes tighter around mine, eyes darkening dangerously.

I pull my hand away, looking at Sherlock while trying to maintain a somewhat calm demeanor. ' _Je_ _vais prendre_ _plus de café_ _. À_ _plus._ ' I turn on my heel and walk/sprint down the corridor.

_Bad Dobby! Stupid Dobby_! I mutter and slap my forehead while waiting for the coffee. Why can't I just learn to control myself?

I think back on the conversation. _It was so easy to catch him out._ I just wanted to not feel weak or … scared.

I sigh.

_But now he knows you know something's up and will probably skin you alive for it._

Rounding the corner with two new steaming cups of coffee, I take a sip of mine only to –

'WAAH!' I shout walking straight into another body, drenching myself (once again) in coffee.

'ARE YOU FREAKING – ' I gulp, coming face to face with Mr. Moriarty himself.

'… _sérieux?_ ' I finish quietly.

He chuckles darkly. 'Ah, so we meet again _Miss Dubois_.' He's dropped the English accent, replacing it with his natural Irish tone.

I just continue to gape at him like a fish.

'Would you like to tell me what you're _really_ doing here.' He leans forward, resting one hand on the wall, trapping me. 'In English, this time.'

'Uh … g-getting coffee? ..' I stutter, silently cursing my cowardice.

'Ah she speaks!' He leans in uncomfortably close. 'You are going to tell me how you know my name, and you're going to do it _quickly_.'

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Think Audrey … _think_!

'Um... You're name is Jim. I know this because you just told me.' That's it, play it cool.

He brings a hand up to my face and slowly intertwines my hair in his fingers, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. ' _Liar_!' He hisses, yanking my head back. I dig my nails into my palm, fighting to hold back tears. _Don't you cry Aud, don't you dare give him the satisfaction_.

'Do you know what I do to the idiots who think they can get away with lying to me?' He threatens in a quiet voice.

' _I'm not afraid of you._ ' I spit out through gritted teeth. He begins to laugh softly, his warm breath tickling my cheek.

'Look at little Miss Red Riding Hood _._ ' He leers at me. _'_ Standing up to _the Big Bad Wolf_.' With a final smirk, he takes a firm hold of my shoulders and before I can register what is about to happen, he forcibly throws me to the ground. All of this happens _mere seconds_ before John emerges from the lab.

'Oopsy daisy!' He reverts back to "Jim", taking my hand and helping me up. 'Are you okay? Have you hurt yourself?' He asks, feigning concern.

_Two can play at this game._ 'No, no, I'm fine!' I laugh, brushing myself down. 'I'm so clumsy!' 

'Well,' He looks from me to John and sort of ... _bows_ while walking away. 'It was nice meeting you.' John smiles in return.

'Likewise.' I reply, grinning. John joins me at the wall. 'Did you spill the coffee _again_?'

'Yeah.' I reply sheepishly. 'I wasn't lying about being clumsy, you know.' John chuckles and continues to the coffee machine.

I wince, rubbing where my hip bone made contact with the hard tiles. _That's sure gonna look pretty in the morning_.

* * *

' _Argh!'_ Moriarty growls and dashes his glass of brandy to the floor. The crystal shatters, spraying nearby cream curtains with the dark alcohol. Who was this girl? How did she see through _him?_ … And that's just what she is; a _girl_. Barely looked eighteen years old.

The dark haired man rolls his shoulders and neck, sighing.

She's a liability. If she lets slip _anything_ , the whole plan goes kaput. He had Moran run every background check on her - family history, personal history… He had even stolen her DNA results from Barts – All of which proved to be futile. There was _nothing_ on her … _he_ had nothing on her. No family or loved ones to blackmail and threaten.

Moriarty flexes his fingers, cracking each one. She was a mystery … this _Audrey Dubois_.


	6. Moccasins

The journey home was unbearably silent. I had refused point blank to explain my bizarre outburst in St. Barts, stating simply that sometimes I have an insuppressible need to _parler_ _français_. Sherlock had snorted at this and told me I needed my head examined, to which I graciously responded with a swift elbow to his ribs.

I lean back against the soft leather seat, trying to steady the erratic thumping in my chest. _Now is not the best time to have a nervy b, Aud_. I thought I had gained _some_ control over the panic attacks throughout the past years. But every so often the fear would resurface again, like a little anxiety demon.

It's not so much _fear_ that I'm feeling right now, more so a sort of … _regret_ and... _bitterness_. How had I allowed myself to become so feeble? I had known what was coming, how that scene would play out. Yet in my arrogance, I had almost altered the entire storyline.

Yep. I walked myself _straight_ into the firing line.

'…They weren't there. I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important.' I shake out of the reverie and turn my attention back to Sherlock and John. 'He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes …' Sherlock leans down and plucks Carl Powers' trainers from the bag. '… until now.'

* * *

John's phone dings a text as he's preparing a sandwich. 'Audrey, can you check that for me please?' He calls over his shoulder. I grab the phone, scrolling through the message. 'It's from Mycroft. He wants to know if there's been anything more on the missile plans.' John pauses and looks up, frowning.

'Hang on a minute, how does Mycroft have my number?'

'Shall I reply?' I ask, already typing out a message.

'Sure, tell him Sherlock is – '

' – Putting my best man onto right now.' Sherlock interrupts from the sitting room.

 _'New number, who dis?'_   I click send while sniggering at my own wit. 

John, who had been peering over my shoulder the whole time, sighs and takes a bite from his sandwich. 'Okay now send a normal one, please, if you can manage it.'

I pull a face and compose a new message:

_'Sherlock's sending John over. He's … "busy"._

 

_Take it easy on those molars btw, root canal's a bitch._

_Audrey.'_

Placing the phone back on the counter top, I begin a most strenuous task - locating a clean teacup.

'John, be a doll and buy some milk on the way to Mycrofts, there's a viscous _yellowy_ substance emanating from this carton.' I wrinkle my nose at the offending milk bottle.

'Who says I'm going to Mycrofts?' John looks from me to Sherlock.

'Sherlock.' I reply simply.

'No I didn't.' I hear Sherlock saying from beneath the microscope.

'Well, not _yet_ you haven't.' I roll my eyes. 'But John is your "best man". Congrats,' I say to him. 'You've got a case.' John opens his mouth to speak but Sherlock gets there first.

'Actually, I was talking about you, Audrey.' I hear the smirk in his voice. 'You can go to Mycroft's office.'

_Oh he knows what he's doing. He's said that just to annoy me. The little shit._

'That is bullshit, Sherlock Holmes.' I say, glowering at him. 'You've literally just changed your mind for the sake of out-smarting me.' I toss my hair and flounce from the kitchen in a stunningly accurate Fleur Delacour fashion.

'An arduous feat, no doubt.' Sherlock sighs. 'He seems to like you; maybe because you're small, I don't really know.' I snort at this. 'But you know this case as well as I do. Better, in fact.' His expression darkens.

'Fine. But if I'm going so is Catsby.' I cross my arms defiantly. John chuckles at this but Sherlock raises his head, narrowing his eyes. 'Audrey, you are _not_ bringing your cat into the Diogenes Club.'

'Well I'm certainly not leaving him here with you and your experiments!' I spy a fluffy cream tail behind the curtains. 'And look, he's gone into hiding already!' I complain, trying to coax the fur ball out.

'Audrey, I'm being very serious. You are not bringing that angry creature to a place where _coughing_ can result in immediate exclusion.' Sherlock warns me.

' _N_ _'écoute pas, mon cher. Il est con._ ' I whisper to Catsby, who lifts his head and gingerly sniffs my hand. He seems to respond to my insulting Sherlock. _The little cherub_.

'Oh, there she goes in French again.' Sherlock mutters.

I glare at him. _'Il est une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochon d'inde._ ' Catsby swishes his tail and sits up. ' _Il a le corps d'un chien et le QI d'une durée de cinq ans!_ ' The fat Persian cat stretches and crawls onto my lap.

'You know, I can understand you.' Sherlock remarks behind us.

'Good.' I sniff and gather Catsby up to cradle him in my arms.

* * *

Fifteen minutes and two scratched arms later (10 points to whoever guesses who the arms belong to), I find myself standing outside a rather large, white Georgian building. Tucking Catsby securely under my arm, I tap my knuckles three times against the black door. A stuffy looking elderly man kitted out in the full suit and tailcoat opens the door and proceeds to stare blankly at me.

' _Ahem.._ ' I cough, clearing my throat. 'Hi. I'm Audrey Thompson, I'm here to see Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock sent me.'

Jeeves, (I've decided he looks like a Jeeves. Or maybe a Carson) continues to stare at Catsby in disbelief. 'Oh don't worry,' I laugh, waving my hand. 'Mycroft knows I'm bringing Catsby.' Jeeves/Carson reluctantly steps back and allows me inside. 'This way, Miss Thompson.' He sniffs haughtily. I follow Jeeves/Carson down a wide corridor, the walls lined with portraits of Stephen Fry look-a-likes. We enter through a narrow door at the end of the corridor. Mycroft sits at the mahogany desk in centre of the room.

'Ah, Audrey.' Mycroft looks up from the multitude of letters and documents splayed across his desk. 'Yes, Sherlock mentioned he'd be sending you.' His gaze trails down to my arms. 'And … Catsby.' Mycroft stands, turning towards Jeeves/Carson and motions for me to take a seat. 'Thank you, Carson. That will be all.'

_Frickin' called it!_

 

Mycroft sits down again. 'Now, Audrey. How can I help you?'

I glance around the room, suddenly nervous under his scrutinizing gaze. 'Um, well, I was wanting to ... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans.'

'Did he?' Mycroft begins to smile but winces, placing his hand on his jaw.

'Er … Yep.' I state awkwardly. 'Root canal acting up?' I ask sympathetically. 'Do you want some Nurofen Plus?' I set Catsby down and begin rooting around my handbag. 'I always have a packet in case I get perio – uh… headaches.' _Wow, smooth save Aud_.

Mycroft's eyes soften at this. 'No, no. Thank you, though.'

I smile and pull out a refill pad, clearing my throat. 'Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about Westie.'

'Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Wait, how did you know his name was Westie?' Mycroft frowns at this.

 _Shit_. 'Uh… Sherlock, he um… he told me.' I finish lamely.

Mycroft just smiles, not believing a word of it. 'Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.'

'Right.' I tap my fingers against the wood, trying to remember any detail of the case from the book. 'He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train.'

'No. He had an Oyster card ...' Grimacing, Mycroft raises his hand to his mouth again. '... but it hadn't been used.'

'Must have bought a ticket.' I remark.

'There was no ticket on the body.' Mycroft explains, lowering his hand.

'Then ...' I trail off, copying John in the book.

'Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?' Mycroft finishes for me. 'That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How is my dear brother, by the way? And the case he is so _preoccupied_ with?

'He-he's fine, yes. Oh, and-and it is going ... very well. It's, um, you know – he's completely focused on it.' I lie my pants off.

'Hmm.' Mycroft nods and smiles tightly. 'And how are you finding 221B? Hellish, I imagine.'

I laugh, shaking my head. 'I'm never bored. It's different, yes. I come from a family of two girls; my mum and Ca – Well, just me and mum now.' I swallow, and attempt to smile. 'Living with two men is… challenging.'

Mycroft's eyes widen at my slip-up. 'You certainly are somewhat of a mystery, Audrey. I can find no public records or family documents. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were running from something.' He raises and eyebrow, smiling. 'Or someone.' He adds.

_Oh you might as well tell him, Aud._

'Well, um… I can tell you that I am half-French, on my mother's side. My full name is Audrey Thompson-Dubois. I am nineteen years old, and currently study French and Film in Kings College.' I glance up at Mycroft, who signals to continue.

'Um… I am a twin. W-well, I was.' I feel my face heat up as my voice begins to wobble. 'Camille, she… died. She.. well, she... took her own life.' I glance up. 'We were fifteen.' Mycroft, who had been looking down at his desk, tilts his head upwards. 'I'm sorry to hear that, Audrey. Truly.' He says quietly.

I take a deep breath, composing myself, and keep my eyes glued to my intertwined hands. 'Thank you. But.. Er, that's not everything.' I almost laugh before saying it. 'I er… read myself… into existence...?' I sneak a glance at Mycroft, who just looks at me.

'You… _read_ yourself into existence?' He repeats.

'Yes, well you see, you don't actually exist.' I wait for him to laugh or retort angrily, but he doesn't. 'I have the ability to read myself _into_ books. And, read people and objects _out_ of books.' I add.

Mycroft rubs his jaw, but still says nothing.

'I find this works best when I can actually _show_ you, rather than tell you…' I pull an indigo-coloured blue book from my handbag. _The Catcher In The Rye_ flashes in gold text across the front cover. I locate the top right-hand corner I'd folded down and search the page for the quote. Clearing my throat, I begin to read:

" _We went into the shoe department and we pretended she – old Phoebe – wanted to get a pair of those very high storm shoes, the kind that have about a million holes to lace up. We had the poor salesman guy going crazy. Old Phoebe tried on about twenty pairs, and each time the poor guy had to lace one shoe all the way up. It was a dirty trick, but it killed old Phoebe. We finally bought a pair of moccasins and charged them."_

The room stops tilting and the whispering quietens. A dull thump brings our attention to a pair of soft, brown leather shoes sitting beside Catsby at the fireplace. He hisses at the sudden intrusion, skulking behind the armchair.

' _Impossible._ ' Mycroft breathes, striding over to the moccasins and inspecting them.

'Impossible, yes.' I agree, packing my book away and standing up. 'But true.' I sling my bag over my shoulder and pull Catsby up into my arms. 'I trust my secret's safe with you, Mycroft?' I hold his gaze. ' _All_ of them.'

Mycroft looks up at me. 'You have nothing to worry about, Audrey.' He opens the door. 'Until next time.'

'Bye, Mycroft.' I smile.

* * *

'Clostridium botulinum!' I hear Sherlock shout as I walk through the door. Catsby squirms and jumps from my arms. 'Do you have a personal vendetta against my cat?' I burst out angrily, coaxing Catsby out from underneath the sofa.

He ignores me. 'It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!' John looks at Sherlock blankly. 'Carl Powers!'

'At a boy, I knew you'd get it soon.' I praise him and set about finding Catsby's dinner bowl.

'The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.' Sherlock explains to John.

'Yeah, yeah whatever, have any of you guys seen Catsby's bowl? Everything else is… dirty.' I turn my nose up at the state of the kitchen.

Sherlock walks around the table to where his laptop is lying. 'Why do you need a clean bowl? He's a cat, he won't know the difference.' He scoffs.

'In that case, I'm sure you won't mind if I use your coffee cup then?'

' _No_!' He snatches the blue mug from my hands. 'It's the only clean cup and I don't want to wash the others.'

'Yeesh okay! Calm down Smeagol.' I roll my eyes at the ten year old in front of me. Sherlock continues to type.

_FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989)._

_Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St._

* * *

 

' _Mrs Hudson? Hi it's Audrey's dad again, Mark Thompson.'_

' _Oh yes, hello! Are you going to help me?'_ Mrs Hudson asks excitedly.

' _I'm going to try, yes. I need you to stay where you are, do not leave the house. I'm getting the early flight over Tuesday morning.'_

' _Oh well, I would have nowhere to go even if I did leave.'_ Mrs Hudson sighs and looks around the empty flat.

' _Right well, yes. I need you search Audrey's flat for all of the Sherlock books. Can you do that for me?'_

' _Yes! Yes, I can. I've already found two in her bedroom – The uh… Blind Banker is one of them. I think.'_

' _Perfect. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.'_


	7. Crocodile Tears

'Why don't you like Sherlock, Sally?' Donovan spins around, looking at me incredulously. We're both standing a few yards away from the crime scene. 'Who says I don't like him?' She narrows her eyes. 'Did he say that to you?'

I smile softly. 'He didn't have to.' Donovan continues to eye me suspiciously. 'Who are you, anyway? Why are you staying with Sherlock?'

'I'm… Um Mrs Hudson is my Aunt. I'm staying in her flat while she's um… away.' I shrug my shoulders a little _too_ enthusiastically, resulting in a miffed growl resonating from within my pea coat. Donovan takes a _rather large_ step back, pointing to my chest. 'D – Did your coat just… _growl_?' I open my mouth to explain, but Catsby pops his little head up through my scarf before I can. 'Wha- Why is there a cat…' Donovan just stares, shaking her head in disbelief. 'You're quite the character, I'll give you that.'

I smile warmly and look beyond her.

_Oh, Sherlock's going to make a complete arse of himself now. Fantastic._

'Listen, I'd better go and… help.' I point behind Donovan, who raises her eyebrows. 'Hah, you can try.' I rush past her as Sherlock makes his way towards the sniffling woman. 'Okay yeah, that was a lie. I just really don't want to miss this.'

'… Sherlock Holmes. Very old friend of your husband's. We, um ...' I arrive just as Sherlock activates the waterworks. '... we grew up together.' _Oh please._

The woman looks at Sherlock tearfully. 'I'm sorry, who? I don't think he ever mentioned you.'

Sherlock wipes a tear from his eye. _A motherfucking tear_. 'Oh, he must have done. This is ... this is horrible, isn't it?' I catch John's eye and we both have to turn away to hide the onslaught of sniggers.

Meryl Streep continues with his mother-of-sorrows act. 'I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian – not a care in the world.'

The woman stares at Sherlock. 'Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who are you?'

Sherlock, who now has _actual tears_ running down his cheeks, frowns and looks into the distance. 'Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?'

'No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all.' I attempt to give my best consoling look, but Sherlock's breath hitches and does that little _hiccupy_ thing people do when they cry. _Oh Christ he's good._ I can't contain myself and actually _laugh out loud_. 'S-Sorry..' I wince and hide behind John. 'I'm not good with death.' 

Sherlock smiles tearfully. 'Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!'

The woman shakes her head, beginning to suspect him. 'No it wasn't.' Instantly Sherlock's fake persona drops and he looks at her intensely. 'Wasn't it? _Interesting_.' He turns on his heel and walks away.

John and I hurry after him. 'Oh, that never fails to make me laugh.' I burst out, unable to supress the giggles any longer.

Sherlock glares at me. 'Yes you made that _very apparent_ , thank you Audrey.'

I roll my eyes. 'Look I'm sorry, but you should have seen your face!' I snigger. 'You should put that on your CV - _"Can cry on cue"._   Really,' I look up at him. 'It's impressive.'

'Why did you lie to her?' John inquires beside me.

Sherlock, taking his gloves off to wipe the tears from under his eyes, sighs. 'People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?'

'Sorry, what?' John glances at me.

'I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in. Bit premature – they've only just found the car.' Sherlock explains tiredly.

John frowns at him. 'You think she murdered her husband?'

'Nah.' I sigh and shake my head at the same time Sherlock says 'Definitely not.' He throws me withering look and continues. 'That's not a mistake a murderer would make.'

'I see.' John nods and pauses. 'No, I don't. What am I seeing?'

'Fishing! Try fishing!' Donovan calls out to John as we pass. John turns around and gives her an exasperated nod before following Sherlock again. I smile and wave at her. 'Bye Sally.'

Donovan appraises me for a moment before responding. 'See you Audrey. And your… cat.'

Sherlock spins around. 'What does she mean by your ca – Oh for god's sake!' I pull Catsby out from my coat, shrugging. 'It's cold outside.' Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose and strides ahead, muttering contemptuously.

John stays behind to wait for me. 'You're such a weirdo.' He grins, shaking his head.

* * *

'Now tell me once more what you're to do.' Sherlock instructs me before I open the cab door. I sigh and turn towards him. 'I must leave Catsby in the apartment, come straight back down and get a taxi to Janus Cars _. I know_.'

'Good.' Sherlock nods his head, satisfied. 'And don't even dream of – '

'- Going elsewhere, talking to strangers, robbing a bank or stealing a car.' I reply sarcastically, ticking the options off on my fingers. 'Got it.' I push the car door open and make my way up the steps of 221B. 

'Okay Catsby, be a good boy for maman.' I place a kiss on his head and set him down on the sofa. Running to Sherlock's bedroom (well, my bedroom now), I grab a pair of small, fur-lined gloves. Pulling them on, I admire the soft leather material. _The Narnians have good taste_.

Shutting the front door firmly behind me, I wrap my tartan scarf tighter around my neck and raise my arm to hail a taxi. A sleek black car with tinted windows pulls up in front of me.

 _Ugh, not now Mycroft_.

Anthea, _or maybe not Anthea… I don't know they all look the same_ , steps out from the backseat and holds the door open for me. Rolling my eyes, I slide in. 'Mycroft, now is not the best time to –' I trail off and meet a pair of black eyes.

 _Oh shit_.

Moriarty grins dangerously. 'Hello, Blue Eyes.' I feel my pulse quickening. 'Miss me?' Moriarty leans forward, speaking to the driver. 'Just circle the street for a bit. This won't take long.' He settles back into the cream leather seat and turns to face me, one arm stretching across the seat behind my head. He checks his watch. 'Ooh, only three more hours. Sherlock's getting slow.' I meet his gaze and, with all the courage I can muster, throw him an icy glare.

'What do you want, _Jim_?'

He smirks and drums his fingers on his knee. 'Brilliant girl isn't she… Molly. Kind, clever… _honest_.' He looks into my eyes as he says that last word, searching them. 'She told me the _strangest_ thing yesterday.' He laughs loudly. 'She told me that you… _read yourself_ here. Into this world. Isn't that crazy?' His laughing stops abruptly as he leans in, tilting his head. 'Now, why would she tell me that?'

I play along with him, raising my eyebrows. 'Haven't the foggiest.'

Moriarty's grip tightens on the seat. 'Oh, but I think you do. Dear Molly was _so_ upset she'd told me, she worried she'd make Sherlock angry if he knew.' He widens his eyes, feigning sympathy. 'But it got me thinking… _what if_?' His voice drops to a whisper. ' _What if it's true_?' He takes his hand away from behind my head and places it on his chin. 'So I just had to steal you away and see for myself.' He flashes a wide grin. 'So, go on…'

 _Sweet baby Jesus. He's actually as crazy as they say_.

'Look, I have no idea what you're talk-' I begin but he raises a hand, silencing me.

' _Show_. _Me_.' He moves closer, his voice losing all playfulness.

_Just show him, Aud. You don't know what you're dealing with._

'I don't have a book.' I snap, glaring at him.

'Georgia. Your phone.' He barks at the woman sitting in the front. ' _Now_.' Georgia immediately hands over the iPhone.

I hesitantly take the phone from his hand. _The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, by C.S Lewis,_ is printed across the small screen.

_Oh the irony._

I sigh and begin reading the short passage.

' _"Why, it is just like branches of trees!" exclaimed Lucy. And then she saw that there was a light ahead of her; not a few inches away where the back of the wardrobe ought to have been, but a long way off. Something cold and soft was falling on her.'_

I shiver, noticing the temperature in the car drop considerably.

' _A moment later she found that she was standing in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet and snowflakes falling through the air.'_ My breath fogs as I finish the passage.

I look up. Tiny icicles cling to the corners of the glass windows. As Moriarty rolls the window down, a sudden breeze blows snow flurries into the car, covering our hair and coats. He turns to look at me, a triumphant grin stretching across his face. 'I think I've just found my new favourite toy.'

* * *

My fingers fumble on the lock of the door, I can't control the shaking. Wrenching it open I climb the stairs, only making it half way up before my legs buckle and give out underneath me. I stay there, on that sixth step, breathing deeply and trying to calm myself. When I feel strong enough to walk again, I slowly continue my way up, bolting the door shut behind me. I slide down until I hit the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees.

_Oh God, Audrey. What have you done?_

* * *

' _Audrey_! _Aud_ – Oh thank God!' John sighs in relief as I peek my head around the bathroom door. 'Sherlock. _Sherlock_! She's here.' John hollers down the stairway. I dart back into the bathroom and quickly pull my wet hair into a bun. Wrapping the towel around my body, (twice, just in case) I brace myself for the lecture.

'Oh! _Hello_ , Audrey.' Sherlock waves sarcastically. ' _Forget something_?'

'Sherlock, listen, I'm sorry but I –' I try to explain but Sherlock cuts me off. ' _What_ did I tell you to do? I told you to drop Catsby home, get a taxi and come _straight_ to Janus Cars. Not drop Catsby home and have a bloody _bath_!' He gestures to the towel covering my body.

'Now, look here!' I retort angrily. 'You don't know what I…' _Shit. What am I supposed to tell him?_

'Yes. I'm waiting.' Sherlock crosses his arms and taps one foot against the wooden floor. Lost for words, I look down at the ground, clutching the towel tighter.

'Don't _shout_ at her, Sherlock.' John scolds him and turns towards me. 'Now.' He smiles kindly. 'What happened earlier, eh?'

'Well I was on my way out the door, I swear!' I explain earnestly. 'But then I… W-well I…' I groan inwardly. _This is not happening. Time to pull the PMS card_. 'I…um..' John squints his eyes slightly, but remains quiet. _Oh for god's sake Aud, just say it! He's a flipping doctor!_ 'Well you see it's my time of… Eh, I had…cramps.' I finish quietly. John's face reddens slightly, but he nods understandingly. 'Ah, I see.'

Sherlock, who had been silently fuming all this time, bursts out angrily. 'Well I certainly don't!'

'Oh my God! My period, Sherlock!' I shout at him in exasperation. 'You know, that _thing_ women get every month.' I put my hands on my hips. 'Side effects include dizziness, nausea and _muscle cramps_.'

For once in his life, Sherlock seems at a loss for words.

'Ah..' He clears his throat. 'Right, I see.' He spins back around to face John and I. 'But you could have texted! How were we supposed to know you'd be… _indisposed_.'

I stare at him incredulously. 'Well in case you haven't noticed, _I didn't actually plan coming here!_   Did you think I just " _paused_ " being sucked into a book, grabbed my phone, and continued on my _jolly way_ to Baker Street?' My voice has risen to an almost shout. _Jesus, Aud. Maybe you are getting your period._

I let out a deep breath, un-flustering myself. 'Now, if you excuse me, _I'm going to put some clothes on_.' I turn on my heel and flounce from the sitting room with all the dignity a half-naked girl can muster. Flopping down on the cold, hard tiles, I cradle my head in my arms. _What am I supposed to do? I can't tell them - it'll look so suspicious._

I think back on Moriarty's farewell:

' _Now, remember Snow Princess, this is our secret_.' He whispered to me before letting go of my arm. ' _And don't you even think about tricking me._ ' He wagged his finger, grinning. ' _I always know_.'


	8. The Incredible Sulk

' _AUDREY._ '

' _Jesus Christ!'_ I bolt upwards in bed, startled awake by the sudden bellowing. Sherlock leans against the wooden doorframe, inspecting his fingernails. ' _What in the fucking fuck was that all about_?' I exclaim, flinging the duvet from my body.

'I tried knocking.' Sherlock replies, innocently shrugging his shoulders.

I stomp past him and into the bathroom. Violently squeezing an excessive amount of toothpaste onto my brush, I return to the bedroom to verbally attack him. 'Are you an almighty pain-in-the-arse on purpose, or do you practice it?' I snap.

'Just trying to be helpful.' Sherlock smirks.

_Oh I see, he's still pissed off about yesterday_. 'And you think depriving me of sleep is helpful?' I wave my toothbrush while saying this, spraying his dressing gown with little, white foamy flecks. He scowls at this, and takes a step backwards.

He sighs dramatically. 'I know you can't help the sudden, raging tantrums, given your current situation, but do try and suck it up.' He rolls his eyes. 'They're only cramps.'

At this point I'm frothing from the mouth. ( _No, not in a weird fit of rage/mental patient way. I'm not that crazy_.) I raise a finger, motioning for him to wait. Popping back into the bathroom to spit the foaming toothpaste (which, quite frankly, had begun to become a slight choking hazard) into the sink, I round the corner and turn on him.

' _What did you just say?._ ' I whisper dangerously.

'What, has your hearing been affected now? I sai –'

'Oh no Curly Q,' I cut across him. 'I heard you.'

'You know, the sooner you're finished this… _womanly business_ , the better. The last thing I need is some teary, hormonal teenage girl getting in the way of this case.' He raises his arms in defence. 'I don't want to have to say this but, I feel I mu – What are you doing with the alarm clock?' He eyes widen with understanding and he swiftly ducks, arms covering his head, as the red clock smashes into the wall where, until a second ago, his head had rested.

' _Jesus Audrey_!' Sherlock slowly rises, staring at me in disbelief. 'That could have seriously injured me!' He tightens his dressing gown in an affronted manner, looking practically _violated._

I shrug my shoulders. 'Yes well, that was kind of the point.'

He looks at me and narrows his eyes.

I look at him and blink.

He fixes a stray curl, smoothing it back.

I raise an eyebrow. _Damn, that was hot._

'Well,' He begins with a little smile. 'When Dr Banner has returned to his normal state of being, kindly inform him that we shall be leaving the flat in approximately seventeen minutes.' And with that he flounces away, looking quite chuffed with himself.

'Oh _, good one_.' I shout after him. 'Really _witty._ '

' _Bruce Banner…So I'm the Hulk now, am I? I'll show him the Hulk.._ ' I mumble angrily, pulling my hair down from its bun. I throw the wardrobe doors open and inspect its contents. Then deciding I have no clothes, I slam it shut. But realising I only have ten minutes to get ready, I fling it open again. Grabbing a short, tartan dress, I pull it over my head. Pairing the outfit with maroon tights and black patent brogues, I step back to admire my handiwork.

' _Daaamn girl you is lookin' hella fi_ –'

'AUDREY' Sherlock hollers at me from the kitchen. ' _Stop looking at your reflection_!'

I huff and traipse out, dragging my feet long the ground as I do so, in hopes of marking the wooden floorboards. John is waiting at the door, holding it open like the proper little gentleman he is. Smiling, he turns towards me. 'You look lovely today, Audrey.' I glance down and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear in an 'aw-shucks' kind of way. 'Thanks John.' I reply sweetly.

'No wonder you were looking at your reflection.' He raises his voice, looking pointedly at Sherlock. _'Oh shut up._ ' He snaps at us.

'Jesus..' John mumbles as he passes the incredibly aggravated man. 'What's got you in such a mood?'

You know the way cats brush themselves against dogs when they want to annoy them? All slinky and sneaky. Yeah. Well that's how I walk, no _sashay_ past his nibs. Minus the tail, obviously. Though it would have really added to the whole effect.

_I am a sultry vixen_.

* * *

Ten minutes later we're seated at a small, square table in some random café (to be honest, I have no idea where we are). I pull the steaming mug of tea towards me while Sherlock drums his fingers, eyeing John's breakfast with a look nothing short of revulsion.

'Feeling better?'

'Mmm.' John glances at Sherlock concernedly. 'You realise we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?' He eats another forkful of food, then looks thoughtful. 'Has it occurred to you ...?'

'Probably.'

'No – has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid's shoes – it's all meant for you.'

Sherlock sighs and smiles slightly. 'Yes, I know.'

John places his fork on the plate. 'Is it him, then? Moriarty?' He whispers the last word.

My stomach just about does a 360° somersault upon hearing that name. Sherlock, noticing my discomfort, narrows his eyes slightly.

'Perhaps.' He turns back to John. The pink phone at his elbow beeps a message alert. Switching it on, Sherlock awaits the newest surprise. The phone sounds two short Greenwich pips followed by the longer tone, and a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman appears on the screen.

'Well that could be anybody.' Sherlock huffs, slightly disappointed.

John, on the other hand, smiles grimly as he recognises the face. 'Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly.' Rising from the table, he walks to the counter and switches on the small television hung on the wall. As John is flicking through the channels, Sherlock answers the ringing phone. I instantly recognise the voice.

_Oh god. How could have forgotten this? The one with the poor old lady._

I notice Sherlock's expression – passive; unfeeling.

'Who was it this time?' John returns to join us. 'Jesus, Audrey, are you feeling okay?' He rests a hand on my shoulder.

'Hmm?' I am unable to meet his eyes, taken aback by the unexpected surge of sadness. _Come on, Aud. Pull yourself together, you knew this would happen._

'You're as pale as a sheet! Do you feel ill?' John presses the back of his hand against my forehead, checking my temperature.

'No, no it's fine.' I wave him off. 'Just felt a little dizzy is all.' I force a smile. 'I'm fine now.'

'No she's not.' Sherlock pulls his coat on, a troubled look on his face. 'If I'm not mistaken, the future does not look bright for Moriarty's newest hostage.'

_Not if I can help it.  
_

* * *

'Ah Sherlock, John. Good, you're here.' Lestrade glances up from reading a file. 'Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly.'

'Before you ask, no, Sherlock has not seen it.' I sidle up beside Lestrade. 'Hi Greg.'

'Audrey,' He turns to me with a smile. 'Wasn't expecting to see you here.'

I laugh. 'Well, what choice do I have?' Wherever those two muppets go, I follow.' Lestrade frowns at this, slightly confused.

_I shouldn't have said that. I should NOT have said that._

'W-well what I mean is that, they're showing me around London while I'm staying here so… I would have no one else without them.' I shoot a dazzling smile at Lestrade, hoping to distract him with my womanly wiles. Well, more like girly wiles really. _Womanly_ suggests I ought to have curves and boobs. Both of which I am seriously lacking.

'Ah, I see.' Lestrade returns the smile, but does not look completely convinced.

'How deep is the wound?' I hear John asking.

Bending down to examine the now pale, purple laceration, I turn to John and try to keep a straight face. 'Hella.' I conclude.

'I don't – I don't understand that...' John begins as Lestrade throws Sherlock a 'what-is-wrong-with-this-girl' sort of look.

'Don't mind her, Inspector. She's menstruating.' He informs Lestrade absentmindedly.

' _Sherlock_!' I gasp and march over to the infuriating man, grabbing his elbow. 'A word. _Now_.' I hiss, dragging him out of the morgue.

' _What_? What is it?' He looks miffed. I stare up at him in disbelief. 'You actually thought there was nothing wrong in saying that, didn't you?' Sherlock opens and shuts his magnifying glass in impatience. 'Sherlock.' I look at him carefully. 'You do not go telling other people, _especially not men_ , that I have my… thingymabob.'

'Why? It's a perfectly normal part of a woman's – ' He starts.

'Yes but most woman just like to keep that information private.' I interrupt him.

'Well "most women"' He makes the quotation sign with his fingers. 'Are prudes.'

I fold my arms. 'You know, I'd like to see things from your point of view but I can't seem to get my head that far up my ass.'

He says nothing, staring at me sulkily.

…

….

…..

'So, are we done here?'

I roll my eyes. _Cheeky sod_.

'Yes,' I motion towards the door tiredly. 'You may go.' And I shit you not, the fucknut _struts_ past me.

* * *

One hour later, John and I find ourselves squashed between a rather heavy-set middle aged man and a hairless cat who seems to be sexually attracted to John's legs.

'I don't know what I'm going to _do_ now.' Kenny stares at John intensely.

'Right...' John states awkwardly. Fidgeting he tries to move further away from Kenny, but is unable to do so. 'Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?'

'No.' Kenny replies quickly. Still staring intensely at John, he moves closer. 'You fire away.'

The cat meows and trots across the carpet. John watches it and reaches up to rub the side of his nose. As he pulls his hand away, he suddenly realises something and quickly raises his hand to his nose once more, pretending to rub it as he quietly sniffs at his fingers and looks towards the cat again.

'John.' I blurt out, earning a dirty once-over from Kenny. 'Can I borrow your phone, please? I need to um… phone the photographer and see if he's on the way.' I give him the tiniest of nods, letting him know I've caught on.

* * *

' _Sherlock_.' I hiss into the phone as soon as I've made it out the front door. 'You've gotta get over here. Kenny's about to make a move on John any minute now and I don't think I'm strong enough to pull him off, I really don't.' I flex my arm muscles weakly. _Yep, definitely not._ I hear Lestrade's muffled laughter in the background. 'Oh and John has a theory.' I add. 'You're going to need to a camera. Like a proper photography camera, with the big lens and flashgun.'

'I'm on my way.' Sherlock reassures me and disconnects.

* * *

John chuckles delightedly as we walk down the drive and head towards the main road. 'Yes! Ohh, yes!'

Sherlock smiles the smile of a man about to crush dreams. 'You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat.'

'What?' John stops suddenly. 'No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.'

'Lovely idea.' Sherlock steps on the broken shards of said crushed dream.

'No,' John insists. 'He coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet – bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have ...'

Sherlock interrupts him. 'I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother.'

John, unrelenting, chuckles again. 'He murdered his sister for her money.'

'No. It was revenge.'

'Revenge?' John states, perplexed. 'Who wanted revenge?'

'Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so ...'

John stops and turning towards Sherlock. 'No wait, wait. Wait a second.' I pat his arm consolingly. 'What about the disinfectant then, on the cat's claws?'

'Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant now.' Sherlock waves at John's shirt. 'No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though.' John, disheartened, mumbles something about getting a cab, and marches ahead of us.

I sigh. 'You've really got to work on the whole "empathy" thing.' I nudge Sherlock's side as he watches John speed ahead.

'Empathy?' He looks down at me. 'I do not lack empathy, I just ignore it in favour of objective logic.' He says simply. 'I choose not to act upon any feelings of empathy – being sentimental doesn't make me solve the case more efficiently.'

'You know, Sherlock,' I link my arm through his, ignoring the protests. 'I do have a lot of respect for you.' He raises an eyebrow in response. 'That is, when you're not being a total asswipe.'

He snorts at this, and then frowns, as if remembering something. 'I received a very peculiar message earlier; on the pink phone.'

'Oh yes?' I ask.

'Mm. It said: " _To the Snow Princess_ ",' My stomach lurches. ' " _Don't forget my promise_."' Sherlock gauges my reaction. 'Any idea what that could mean?'

Tightening my grip on his arm, I laugh shakily. 'Haven't the foggiest.' 


	9. Swiggity Swooty

* * *

'And you're sure it's the house boy?' Lestrade asks Sherlock, leaning over him to reach the laptop. Opening 'The Science of Deduction', Sherlock types six words: _Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox_.

'Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections.' Sherlock turns to face John and Lestrade. 'My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases.' He points to the folder lying on the desk. 'He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.' Sherlock updates the post on his blog and almost instantly, the pink phone rings.

 _This is your only chance, Aud_.

' _Wait_.' I grab the phone before Sherlock gets to it. 'Don't answer it.' All three men look at me as though I've gone mad.

' _Audrey... What are you_ –' John begins.

'Trust me.' I keep my eyes fixedly on Sherlock. 'If you answer the phone, the woman and building will blow up.' I grip the phone tightly. 'You need to go to Lakanal flats in Camberwell. She's on the fourth floor; flat number 384.'

'Audrey, are you sure -?' John starts again. 'I don't know about this…'

' _What_ is going on _?_ ' Lestrade exclaims in frustration.

' _Please_ , Sherlock.' I cry frantically. ' _Trust me._ '

Sherlock jumps up from his seat. 'Do as she says.' He commands Lestrade.

' _Wha_ –'

' _Now_.' He barks, cutting across Lestrade, who races from the office.

'Donovan we need back-up, maximum back-up.' He shouts at Sally. 'Lakanal flats, Camberwell, _now_!'

* * *

"… _Scotland Yard were called at 5pm yesterday to reports of a bomb scare in Lakanal Flats, South London._

_A number of flats had to be evacuated when a viable bomb was discovered in apartment 384. Further investigation has– "_

Sherlock lazily flicks the remote at the telly, muting the BBC news reporter. 'Quite the stunt you pulled there, Audrey.' Sherlock glances at me and smiles tightly. I sigh loudly from my seat in the kitchen and push it out from underneath the table, the legs of the chair screeching against the floorboards.

'Right,' I huff. ' _For the fiftieth time, I had no other choice_. Moriarty was going to blow her brains out if you answered that phone.' I move to stand in front of Sherlock, crossing my arms. 'Once you answered that call, she would start describing him; his voice.' I stare intently at the stubborn man sitting across from me, trying to make him see the logic behind my act. 'Just once, Moriarty would have put himself in the firing line.'

'Yes, that's all very well; _saving lives_.' Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. 'But you've outsmarted Moriarty. And for that there will be dire consequences, I'm sure of it.' His looks troubled, eyebrows knitted together.

' _Jesus._ ' John shuffles in the doorway, laden down with bags and shivering from the cold.

Well, one bag. But laden sounds so much more dramatic so…yeah. Let's stick with that.

'It's bloody freezing out.' He places the small (don't look at me like that) Vodafone bag on the countertop.

I sidle over. 'Ooh what's this then?' Peering into the bag I spy a snazzy looking iPhone 5.

'Yours.' John says, smiling at me.

I gape open-mouthed like a codfish. 'Shut the front door.' John frowns slightly at my reaction, but continues to grin at me. 'I was due for an upgrade.' He explains. 'And, anyway, I'm not great with technology and you're in need of a phone so…' He trails off.

'Aw Jaahn...' I stare at the doctors kind, if slightly flushed, face. 'You're too good to me.' Stepping forward, I wrap my arms around his middle and pull him into a bear hug. 'Ooof.' John grunts, my grip winding him slightly. He takes my hands and gently pries them from his back. 'I've put my number, Sherlock's and Lestrade's in already.'

I settle down on the sofa opposite Sherlock, switching on my new phone. 'Hey, S Bomb.' I call across the room. Sherlock throws me a withering look. I take it he's listening. 'Do you have an iTunes account?' He stares at me blankly. 'So that's a no, then…' He continues scrolling through his phone. 'Do you listen to music?' I ask, ignoring the fact that he's ignoring me. 'I play the violin.' He states without looking up. 'So yes, obviously I do.' I shake my head. 'No, I mean _proper_ music. Not songs that sound like they were composed in the Shire.'

If looks could kill, I'd be harpooned against the wall.

'Let's see… You're thirty-five now, which means you were born mid 70s.' He raises an eyebrow, sighing. 'Impressive skills of deduction you've got there.' I ignore him. _Sassy bastard_. 'So, you grew up listening to 80s music, I imagine.' He says nothing, which means I must be right.

_Audrey, you are on fiyah._

'Do you know who the Police are?'

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly and sets his phone down. 'The Police were an English rock band formed in 1977. The band consisted of Sting, Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland.'

I snigger. 'That sounds like something straight from Wikipedia.' I narrow my eyes. 'Sherlock Holmes, did you just Google the Police?'

'Don't be stupid.' He huffs. 'Contrary to popular belief, I did actually have a childhood.' Throwing me a final dirty look he grabs his phone and begins scrolling again.

We sit in silence for a while until a sudden thought strikes me.

'Sherlock,' I begin. 'When Sting dies… Do you think we should call him Stung?'

' _Shut up, Audrey_.'

* * *

'D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?' Lestrade asks as Sherlock snaps on a pair of latex gloves.

Sherlock bends down to examine the poor sod sprawled out on the river bank. 'Must be. Odd, though.' He holds up the pink phone. '...He hasn't been in touch yet.' He looks at the ripped pocket on the shirt before working his way downwards until he reaches the man's feet. He pulls off one of the socks and examines the sole of the foot with the magnifier.

' _Dude_ , that is gross.' I squeak from behind John.

'Audrey?' Lestrade looks up, noticing me. 'I didn't know you were here.' He smiles warmly.

_Ah Greg, your powers of observation continue to astound me._

'Hi Greg.' I wave before clamping both hands over my nose, the stench of rotting flesh turning my stomach.

'Stop being such a _girl_ , Audrey.' Sherlock chastises me.

'Oh I'm sorry.' I snap. 'But unlike you, I don't _get off_ on the aroma of _dead man feet_.'

Lestrade barks out a laugh and proceeds to unsuccessfully mask it as a cough.

Standing up and closing the magnifier, Sherlock looks across to John and jerks his head down towards the body in a mute order to examine it. John squats down beside the body and reaches out to take hold of the man's wrist as Sherlock walks a few paces away to check his phone.

'Now that you're here, Audrey.' Lestrade touches my arm lightly. 'I just want to thank you for yesterday.' His brown eyes look into mine. _Swoon_. 'You helped save that woman's life.'

'Oh, it was nothing.' I toss my hair in a la-di-da sort of way.

'How _did_ you know, though?' Lestrade frowns. 'Where the woman lived, I mean.'

'Er…' I glance at Sherlock, too preoccupied with his phone to notice my panicked state.

 _Merde_.

'…He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer.' John interrupts, looking up at Lestrade. 'Did he drown?'

I let out the breath I was holding. _Thank you baby Jesus, for John_.

'Apparently not.' Lestrade replies. 'Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.' John nods. 'Yes, I'd agree.' He bends down to inspect the corpse again. 'In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition.;

'He's been in the river a long while.' Sherlock re-joins us. 'The water's destroyed most of the data.' Sherlock quirks a grin. 'But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a _fake._ '

Lestrade and John share a 'the-fuck-is-he-on-about?' kind of look.

'Sherlock, you mad raisin.' I laugh, shaking my head. 'That's really random. Even for you.' I add.

'We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates ...' Sherlock ignores his flabbergasted companions.

'Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait.' Lestrade splutters. 'What painting? What are you – _what are you on about_?'

'It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.'

'O-kay.' Lestrade begins uncertainly. 'So what has that got to do with the stiff?'

'Everything.' Sherlock's grin borders slightly on the psychotic. 'Have you ever heard of the Golem?'

'Gollum?' I speak up. 'The emaciated Dobby thing who has the hots for Frodo in Lord of the Rings?'

Silence.

I swear to God I live solely to be ignored.

'It's a horror story, isn't it?' John shakes his head. 'What are you saying?'

'Jewish folk story.' Sherlock corrects him. 'A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin – real name Oskar Dzundza – one of the deadliest assassins in the world.' He points down to the body. 'That is his trademark style.'

'So this is a hit?' Lestrade asks.

'Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.'

'But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see ...'

Sherlock huffs impatiently. 'You do see – you just don't observe.'

 _Ooh burn_.

'All right all right, girls, calm your tits.' I struggle to keep a straight face while saying this. John chuckles.

 _Respect bro_.

'Sherlock?' John looks at him. 'D'you wanna take us through it?'

'Sherlock eventually steps back and points to the body.

'What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much – just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal – maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt – cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.'

'Tube driver?' Lestrade offers.

Sherlock throws him a look that blatantly says 'peasant'.

'Security guard?' John tries.

'More likely.' Sherlock points to man's arse. 'That'll be borne out by his backside.'

'Backside?!' Lestrade exclaims.

' _Swiggity swooty, I'm comin' for that booty_.' I mutter in a very (I now realise), rapey sort of way.

Sherlock gives me his best 'You're a freak' glare. 'Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.'

At this point I kind of zone out and, since we're on the topic of booties, I take in the fine pieces of ass standing before me. Not that I would ever tell Sherlock, of course. Nope. Never. Not even as I lay dying.

Well, maybe I would then.

Imagine how that would play out?

" _Sh-Sherlock… one last thing.."_

" _Yes, my love." Sherlock whispers tearfully, cradling my head in his arms._

" _I've never told you this but you… *cough splutter* … You've got the booty."_

' _AUDREY._ ' I jolt from my daydream, turning to see all three men staring at me, two with concerned faces. 'These daydreams of yours are getting steadily worse.' Sherlock starts towards the footpath. 'And even more annoying.' He calls back. I glare after him as he saunters up the river bank.

 _Yep. He got the booty alright_.

* * *

'Stop!' Sherlock shouts and the cab driver pulls over. 'Back in a sec.' He tells John and I, opening the car door. He then vaults over the railing with grace like that of a gazelle.

' _Majestic._ ' I whisper appreciatively. John steps out of the car, takes one look at the railing, and with a silent but palpable, ' _Nah_ ', he jumps back into the cab.

Moments later, Sherlock returns. 'What was that about?' John asks as he sits back.

'Investing.' Sherlock replies. 'Now we go to the Gallery.'

The taxi pulls up and Sherlock steps out. John and I begin to follow but Sherlock stops us. 'No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address.'

'Okay.' John agrees while I stare sulkily at Sherlock.

 _I wanted to dress up as a police officer_.

As the cab pulls away from the Gallery, my phone dings a message alert. Pulling it out, I make sure the screen is not visible to John.

_Looks like Little Red Riding Hood saved Grandma from the Big Bad Wolf after all._

_Such a clever girl._

_But you've made the Wolf angry now, naughty naughty, and you've made him miss dinner._

_The Wolf is hungry. Now he has an even bigger appetite._

I stare at the last line of the message, my hands beginning to shake.

" _All the better to eat you with, my dear."_

_M._

'Who's that?' John asks beside. I nearly jump out of my seat.

'Er… It's Lestrade – with the address.' I lie quickly.

'God.' John laughs slightly, not noticing. 'That was fast.' I nod and smile in reply, turning to stare out the window.

 _Oh Aud. You have well and truly done it this time_.


	10. Grawp, Put Him Down

'There's something strange about that Joe.' I say to John, all mysterious and wide-eyed. He looks at me bemusedly. 'Why's that?' I shake my head, staring out the window, and in that same mystical voice I say; 'I have a foreboding.' John laughs uneasily, and I can tell he's unsure whether I'm joking or not. I continue to gaze out the window, hiding my smirk. Sometimes I think John forgets I'm not from their world.

But it doesn't bother me. In fact, I wish everyone would treat my secret as John does – as though it doesn't exist.

_But alas, you had to blab out everything to Moriarty, Aud. And now he's going to use you. Or turn you into shoes. Or like, a lampshade or something._

I shudder at the thought. As we pull up outside 221B, I see Sherlock approaching a homeless girl whose tangled and knotted hair would give Radagast the Brown a run for his money. John hops, skips and jumps from the taxi to inform Sherlock of our recent findings, but Sherlock interrupts him before he gets the chance to tell him.

'No, back in the cab. Whatever you need to tell me can wait.' Sherlock flounces past him, a thin slip of paper grasped firmly in his hand. He jumps into the seat beside me, grinning triumphantly. I glance at John's disheartened expression and scowl at Sherlock. 'Don't smile Sherlock, it really doesn't suit you.' I snap at him. He quirks an eyebrow but remains silent.

'Er…Where to now?' John asks, attempting to break the awkward silence between myself and Sherlock.

'Vauxhall Arches.' Sherlock replies stiffly. John stares at him confusedly.

'Oh shit, the Golem!' I gasp, forgetting my annoyance with Sherlock. He looks at me, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. 'Precisely.'

I rack my brains, trying to remember how tonight's events will plays out.

_Aw crap, the Planetarium._

I panic slightly, recalling the epic fisticuffs-at-dawn that ensues between the giant, Sherlock and John. _I need a weapon_. I subtly edge closer to the window and begin scrolling through my phone, making sure Sherlock is unable to see its contents. Flicking through the books I downloaded, I stop at one I'm looking for. _Gotcha_.

* * *

As we walk towards the Arches, Sherlock buttons up his coat and gazes towards the starry sky. 'Beautiful, isn't it?' John and I share incredulous looks. 'I'm sorry,' I start, glancing up at him. 'Did you just refer to something other than yourself as _beautiful_?' John chuckles at this. 'I thought you don't care for things like that?' I ask, smiling lightly. Sherlock turns to face me. 'Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.' He continues to stare at me, right in the eyes, until John clears his throat and he breaks contact. I look away, all flustered and jelly-like.

 _Sweet tap dancing Jesus give me strength_.

Just as we approach the entrance to the Arches, I stop, raising a hand. 'Woah, hold up a sec. I need to do something before we go in.' Sherlock sighs and turns around. 'Audrey, we don't have time to –'

'No please, it'll only take a second.' I interrupt him and pull out my iPhone. Finding the right chapter, I clear my throat and begin to read.

" _I walk to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I've been itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic and metal and materials I can't even name."_

John glances around as the whispers intensify, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.

" _Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it, and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder."_

As I finish reading, a faint clatter is heard not far behind me, followed by a dull thud. Racing towards that spot, I pick up the silver and black metal bow and sling the soft, leather quiver across my back. I nock one of the arrows and pull back, testing the strings elasticity. Satisfied, I release the arrow, sending it straight at the red STOP sign 60 yards away from where I'm standing. The arrow hits its target, dead-centre inside the letter O.

I slowly turn around to face John and Sherlock who, as predicted, stare back at me in astonishment.

'I learned archery in the eighth grade to make fun of the fairy that lived up the street.' I tell them seriously.

They don't get it. Surprise, surprise.

' _Really_?' I ask incredulously. 'Neither of you have seen _The Other Guys_?' Both men continue to stare at me blankly. 'Wow. We're having a movie night on Friday.' I state and saunter past them, feeling all regal and Elf-like. Sherlock's quick stride soon catches up with mine and he looks down at me for an explanation. I sigh. 'I was part of the archery society in college. Although,' I smirk up at him. 'I'm surprised you didn't find that out for yourself.' Sherlock stiffens at my words and throws me a haughty look. 'On the contrary, I did, _in fact_ , notice the small callouses on the tips of your fingers, but I presumed you played guitar.' He frowns slightly at the misinterpretation.

'That was a bloody good shot!' John exclaims behind us, examining the sleek bow appreciatively. 'Yes, it was.' I admit unashamedly. Archery was the only sport I didn't make a floundering _idiot_ of myself in, so I wasn't going to deny my skill, _thankyouverymuch._

John grins at me and turns toward Sherlock. 'Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the phone at his flat – a Professor Cairns?'

'This way.' Sherlock points, ignoring John once again.

'Nice part of town.' John glances around uncertainly. 'Er, any time you wanna explain.' Sherlock smiles slightly. 'Homeless network – really is indispensible.' He explains. 'The Baker Street Irregulars.' I add, sidling in between the two men. Sherlock glances down at me. 'That's quite good, actually. I like that.' He nods in approval.

John pulls out a small flashlight from his pocket and switches it on. 'Homeless network?' He asks. Sherlock nods once more. 'My eyes and ears all over the city.'

'Oh, that's clever. So you scratch their backs and ...' John trails off

'Yes, then I disinfect myself.' Sherlock states. I laugh loudly at this, the sound bouncing off the stone arches.

Sherlock also produces a flashlight and shines it around as we continue into the darkness. Their beams pick out homeless people all around the place, most of them settling down for the night. Suddenly, in the distance, the shadow of a man shows on a wall as he begins to stand up. Sherlock stops abruptly, and I walk into his back with a loud ' _oof_!', which turns into a quiet gasp as the shadow of said man grows larger and larger, until he is standing fully upright, over seven feet tall.

'Come on!' Sherlock hisses at John and I, grabbing my hand and pulling me to hide behind the wall.

'What's he doing sleeping rough?' John whsipers.

'Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag – much.' Sherlock explains, peering around the corner. John looks down as he realises what he's forgotten. 'Oh shi-'

Sherlock takes John's pistol from his coat pocket and hands it to him. 'Don't mention it.'

Without any warning, the man breaks into a run and hurries away down another tunnel. Cursing silently, I chase off after him, reaching the tunnel just in time to see him climbing into a waiting car which immediately speeds off. Sherlock follows close behind me, and punches the air in frustration.

'No, no, no, no! It'll take us weeks to find him again.' He cries out.

'Or not.' John glances at me I give a small nod, encouraging him to continue. 'I have an idea where he might be going.'

'What?' Sherlock asks disbelievingly.

'I told you,' John explains. 'Someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book.' He sets off towards the street way. 'Come on.'

* * *

We race through the theatre door just as the Golem wraps his hands round Professor Cairn's neck. John stops and aims his pistol towards the attacker. 'Golem!' Sherlock yells at the top of his voice. The Golem looks up, grunts in surprise, then snaps Cairns' neck and drops her to the floor. Her fingers drag along the mixing desk and the narrative footage goes into fast-forward, plunging the theatre into darkness. The Golem ducks down out of sight. 'I can't see him.' John shouts at us. 'I'll go round. I'll go!' I follow John and hide behind one of the slanted seats, waiting.

As the footage continues spooling and stopping, light comes and goes in the room. Sherlock stares around. 'Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?'

Behind him, I watch as the Golem steps out of the fluctuating darkness and clamps one hand around Sherlock's mouth and nose while gripping his neck with the other. Sherlock grabs at the hand on his face, struggling to pull it free as he is slowly suffocated. I race over, arrow already strung, and stand before the giant man.

'Oi, Grawp!' He grunts in surprise and lifts his head to look at me. ' _Drop him_.' I hear John approach the man at the other side. He cocks the gun and points it at the Golem's face, his hands and voice steady. 'Let him go, or I _will_ kill you.'

If this wasn't a life-or-death situation, I would have squealed with joy. _Oh the feels_.

Sherlock, gasping in his efforts, continues trying to pull the man's hand from his face. The Golem swings him around to the left and lashes out with his long leg, kicking the pistol from John's hands. Seeing this as my cue, I loosen the arrow and shoot it at the Golems hand. Crying out in agony, the Golem drops Sherlock and pulls the arrow from his flesh. He surges forward and grabs me around the neck, pulling me to the floor. He clamps both hands onto my face, covering it completely, leaning his weight onto me. Sherlock runs to free me, but the Golem lashes out at him with one hand, knocking him backwards. Turning back to face me, the Golem pushes down on my right shoulder with all his strength, ignoring my muffled screams. A sharp _crack_ resonates around the room as the Golem's weight breaks my shoulder. I don't even have the strength to react, as I begin to lose consciousness beneath the man's tightening grip.

With a loud shout, John throws himself onto the Golem's back. He roars, releasing me as he claws at the small man on his back. The Golem stands up with John still clinging to him and spins around several times before finally managing to shake him off onto the floor.

In my state of delirium, a scene from _The Hobbit_ comes to mind, though I don't know why.

As John groggily tries to get up, the Golem turns, picks up Sherlock and skims him across the floor towards John. As Sherlock slides across the floor he grabs at the pistol and manages to grab it. The Golem runs for the doors as Sherlock rolls over onto his back and fires twice towards him. But the Golem makes it to the doors and disappears through them. As the image of a supernova dramatically explodes on the screen behind him, Sherlock angrily slams his hand down on the floor.

' _Audrey_!' John exclaims and rushes over to me. I attempt to sit up, but a shooting pain courses up through my right arm, and I fall back to the ground. Sherlock appears kneeling at my other side and gently slides a hand under my back, slowing pushing me into a sitting position.

'My shoulder…John…I think it's..' I try to explain breathlessly.

'Broken. Yes, I know.' John finishes for me softly. 'I'm afraid you're going to have to stand for me Aud, if I'm to see the extent of the break.' He says apologetically. He looks at Sherlock then, motioning for him to help me move into a standing position. Sherlock wraps his hand around my waist and slowly stands up, pulling me with him. I can't help but cry out as my arm falls to my side, without the support of the ground.

Keeping one arm around my waist, Sherlock uses the other to pull off his scarf and hands it to John, who makes a temporary brace for my arm and shoulder. 'There.' He says gently. 'That'll do for the time being.' John then looks up at Sherlock, frowning slightly. 'I don't have the equipment at home to set her shoulder back in place. And, Barts will be closed at this time.'

Sherlock smiles grimly. 'Not if Molly's still there.'

* * *

 

John had insisted that I stay at home this morning, but I was having none of it. No _way_ was I missing Sherlock's deduction at the Gallery. I continue to stare at Sherlock, who is standing in front of the Vermeer painting, looking up information on his phone. John, Lestrade and the curator are standing beside me.

'That's quite the injury you've got there, Audrey.' Lestrade jokes, though he looks troubled. 'Bit dangerous, wasn't it… Bringing you along to find the Golem.' I raise an eyebrow questioningly. 'No, not really. I knew what I was doing.'

'So, you _planned_ on getting your shoulder broken?' Lestrade stares me down.

'Well, _no_ , obviously not that part.' I scowl at him. 'But other than that, I had everything under control!' I throw my arms up in exasperation, momentarily forgetting my injury. I gasp loudly, my eyes watering in pain.

' _Woah, woah_ , careful!' Lestrade places a hand on the small of my back as I double over, helping me straighten up. Sherlock turns around to tell us to shut up (probably) but his eyes flicker towards Lestrade's hand in annoyance, who swiftly pulls away from me.

I glance at John, who gives me a pointed look and smirks.

I flip him off, like the proper Lady I am.

'It's a fake. It has to be.' Sherlock turns around to face the painting again. The curator, Miss Wenceslas, throws him a death stare. 'That painting has been subjected to every test known to science.'

 _Cough_ 'Liar.' _cough_. Miss Wenceslas turns her evil Eye-of-Sauron death stare on me.

'It's a very good fake, then.' Sherlock spins around and glares at her. 'You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?'

Miss Wenceslas turns to Lestrade, looking exasperated. 'Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?'

Just as Lestrade opens his mouth to speak, the pink phone rings. Sherlock snatches it from his pocket and switches on the speaker.

'The painting is a fake.' He states confidently. There's a faint sound of breathing over the speaker but otherwise there is no response.

'It's a fake.' He continues. 'That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.' Still there's nothing more than breathing.

'Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake!' Sherlock exclaims exasperatedly. 'That's the answer. That's why they were killed.' When the phone remains silent, Sherlock takes a deep breath to calm himself.

'Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?' After a moment, the tremulous voice of a very young boy comes over the phone's speaker. ' _Ten_ ...'

Instantly Sherlock spins and looks closely at the painting.

Lestrade stares at the phone in shock. 'It's a kid. Oh, God, it's a kid!'

' _Nine_ ...' The boy continues to count.

Sherlock narrows his eyes as he scans every inch of the painting. 'It's a countdown. He's giving me time.'

'Jesus!' Lestrade shouts and I jump in fright beside him.

' _Eight_...'

Sherlock turns and glares at Miss Wenceslas. 'This boy will die. Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me!'

Miss Wenceslas flinches and opens her mouth, but I interrupt her. 'No, Sherlock this _only_ works if you solve it.' I stare at him imploringly. ' _Only_ you.'

' _Seven_ ...'

Sherlock turns back to the painting again. Unable to stand the tension, John turns and walks away a few paces. I follow him and slip my hand into his. ' _He'll get it John_.' I whisper into his ear. ' _Trust me_.'

Sherlock mutters to himself as he continues to scan the painting. 'Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face.'

' _Six_ ...'

'Woodbridge knew, but how?'

'Sherlock..' John warns him.

' _Five_ …'

'It's speeding up!' Lestrade shouts as John urgently whispers, ' _Sherlock_.'

'Oh for the love of God will you two _shut up_!' I exclaim.

Sherlock's gaze falls on three tiny dots of paint in the night sky. His mouth falls open as the penny finally drops. 'Oh!'

' _Four_ ...'

'In the planetarium! You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!' Turning and shoving the pink phone into John's hands, he walks away from the painting, grinning as he pulls out his own phone from his pocket.

' _Three_ ...'

'What's brilliant? What is?' John demands.

'This is beautiful. I love this!' He laughs in delight.

' _Two_ ...'

'Sherlock!' Lestrade and I yell simultaneously.

Sherlock grabs the pink phone from John and yells into it. 'The Van Buren Supernova!'

There's a short pause, then the boy's plaintive voice comes from the speaker. 'Please. Is somebody there?'

Sherlock turns and hands the phone to Lestrade.'There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up.'

'The Van Buren Supernova, so-called.' Sherlock holds up his own phone over his shoulder so that Miss Wenceslas can see the screen. 'Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight.'

He turns and throws her a triumphant look, then walks away. _*Boss Ass Bitch plays in the distance*  
_

* * *

Back in the flat, I lie back onto the mountain of softness I created for myself by taking all of the cushions from each chair and piling them up on the sofa. Sherlock didn't even try to wrestle them from me. I think he feels bad about the whole shoulder situation.

Catsby is lying asleep on my tummy, purring contentedly. Just as I'm about to drift off to sleep, my phone dings a text alert.

I sigh, and close my eyes, already knowing who the message is from. Sherlock looks up from his latest experiment. 'Who's that from?'

'Er…Molly. She wants to meet up for coffee.' I try to sound blasé, locking my phone and sliding it underneath me.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and gets up from his seat. 'You're lying.' He states, walking towards me. 'You have a secret. Don't even try to deny it, I always know when a person's lying.'

'No I don't.' I reply coolly.

Sherlock sighs. 'Yes you do. And you've been keeping it from me since the Janus Cars case.' He sits at the end of the sofa and appraises me. 'So, what do I have to do?'

I look at him quizzically. 'What do you mean?'

'Well,' Sherlock starts. 'You're obviously in over your head, and I'm really the only person that can help you.'

I stare at him wordlessly _._ 'Nope.' I pop the "p" sound with my lips.

Sherlock smirks. 'I wager you'll give in by the end of the week.'

I grin back at him. 'You're on, sonny Jim.'

'And if I win, you have to assist me with my experiments for a month.' Sherlock smiles darkly.

 _Yikes_. 'Deal. And if I win…' I rack my brains for a suitable punishment. '…You have to watch Dirty Dancing with me.' I grin triumphantly. 'The extended version.' I add.

'That's hardly a punishment.' He scoffs.

_Oh you just wait for the love scene._

'We'll see.' I smile wickedly and stick my hand out to Sherlock. Understanding my motives, he grabs it and helps me off the sofa. 'No one puts Baby in a corner.' I say to him once I'm standing fully upright. Patting his chest lightly, I brush past him and into the bathroom. Making sure the door is lock, I take my phone out and open the message.

" _Not long now until we meet again, Snow Princess._

_Poor Mr Holmes thinks he knows what I'm looking for._

_Silly, silly._

_It's been under his nose this whole time._

_Cours, petit lapin, cours_.

\- M"


	11. Good Cop, Bad Cop

'Audrey, I'm not being seen with you like that in public. I'm sorry, but I'm not.' Sherlock takes one glance at my cat burglar costume, mask and all, and points to the bedroom door. 'Go change.'

'Why are the black leggings -' I run my hands up my thighs '- _distracting_?' Sherlock gives me a haughty once-over. 'No, I think obscenely revealing is the word you're looking for.'

I jump forward into a lunge position, tilting my head to stare at him. 'Don't hate cos you ain't.'

'What does that even mean?' Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. I pretend to clean my nails. 'Haters gon' hate. Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tri _\- mrmph!_ ' Sherlock lunges at me, covering my mouth and nose with his hands. ' _Audrey,_ will you please _shut up_.' Sensing the perfect opportunity, I stick my tongue out until it makes contact with his skin.

' _Eughh_ you just – John she licked me. Audrey just _licked_ me!' He pulls his hands away from my mouth, disgust etched across his face, and wipes them in his coat.

'Dipshit.' I mutter.

'Primate.' He hisses back.

' _I know you are but what am I_?'

'Alright, alright calm down, ladies.' John jumps in between us, hands raised. 'Don't want to break a nail now, do we?' He looks pointedly at Sherlock.

'Wha –' Sherlock retorts, affronted. ' _She_ started it!'

'Did _not_ -' I begin to say as John cuts across me. ' _Both_ of you started it!' He cries out. 'And _I'm_ going to end it.' Straightening his jacket he reaches for the door handle. 'This case isn't going to solve itself.' He crosses his arms and addresses me. 'Audrey, are you _sure_ you're up for it? You only just got the cast taken off.'

I flex my arms, waving him off. 'I'm fine, John. You know I'm made of tougher stuff.'

He quirks a smile. 'That I do.' He turns to look at a silently fuming Sherlock, and then at me. 'Now shake hands and make up.'

It's my turn to stare sulkily out the window. 'Make me.'

' _Audrey_.' John warns. Rolling my eyes I trudge over to Sherlock, extending my hand. He looks at me for a bit before taking it and squeezing. Tightly. _Okay, very tightly. Jesus Christ OW_ \- I almost cry out before he releases me.

Smirking at my now watering eyes, he saunters past me. 'Friends.'

I take in the tall man as he exits the room.

 _Well played, Holmes. Well played_.

* * *

'The missile defence plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service.' Sherlock explains to John as we walk down a side street. 'Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter.' He stops in front of the drive of a maisonette. 'We're here.'

He trots up the steps at the side of the building. As he rummages in his pocket, John whispers to him urgently. 'Sherlock! What if there's someone in?'

'There isn't.' Sherlock replies as the lock opens with a soft click.

'Jesus!' John throws his arms up in disbelief. Just as Sherlock is about to hurry inside, I pull him back. 'Maybe someone should stay here on lookout.'

He rolls his eyes. 'We're not going to get caught.'

I bark out a laugh. 'Maybe I should rephrase that. Someone _needs_ to stay here on lookout.' I stare at Sherlock until he understands my meaning. ' _Really?_ ' He eyes me sceptically. 'We get caught?' I nod my head. Stumped for only the tiniest of seconds, he shrugs his shoulders and looks at John. 'John, you're on lookout.'

'Wha – Why do I –' He starts but Sherlock's already halfway up the stairs.

I race up after him, stopping at the top to call down to John. 'If you run into trouble hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl.'

John stares at me blankly. 'Twice like a barn owl, hoot twice like a brown...hoots like a...like a…' I hear him mumbling behind me.

Once in the house, Sherlock begins pacing the floor. Dropping to his knees, he gets out his magnifier and runs it slowly along the edge of the window sill. ' _He_ stole the memory stick. Killed his prospective brother-in-law.'

I tiptoe over to him and peer around his shoulder at the tiny blood-red spots on the paint. ' _Getting warm_.' I whisper. He turns to face me, opening his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the front door banging open. ' _Shit_.' I mutter and creep over to the peek around the door to see a very distressed and downright _frightened_ Joe Harrison being escorted, (at gunpoint if you don't mind), by one angry John Watson.

'What part of _hoot twice like a brown owl, once like a barn owl_ didn't you understand?' I demand, hands on hips.

' _All of it._ ' John growls as Joe eyes me up. 'Who's this?'

'None of your concern.' John snaps and pushes him forward with the barrel of his gun.

Once Joe is seated, the interrogation begins. I pull John outside the door to discuss tactics. 'We're gonna do good cop, bad cop. Okay? It's the oldest game in the book for a reason - it works. I come strong, then you come in. You got it?'

'Yeah, I – _What_?' John eyes me warily.

'I come strong, then you come in.' I repeat.

'No yeah, I got that. I just –'

'Good.' I cut across him. 'Just follow my lead.' Rolling up the sleeves of my black V-neck, I storm in.

'Now you listen to me, you piece of shit! It's just you and me, and I'm gonna _rip you apart_!' Sherlock gapes at me in shock. I bend forward, nose to nose with Joe. 'How did you cover it up? Huh?' I'm practically sitting on the man now. ' _Who are you working for?_ '

'Someone get this maniac _off_ me!' Joe cries frantically, trying to push me away. Sherlock rushes up behind me, hooking his hands underneath my arms and hauling me up.

'Put me _down_ , Sherlock!' I shout, wincing as my shoulder begins to seize up.

'Not unless you promise _not_ to harm Mr Harrison.' He replies sharply.

'No it's my shoulder…You're hurting –' My feet touch the ground instantly. ' – my shoulder.' John hurries to my side and takes my arm in his. 'Let me see.'

'And where the hell were you?' I round on him. John frowns at me. 'You were supposed to be the good cop!'

'Well, after witnessing that performance,' John begins gently squeezing my shoulder. 'I don't think I could do it justice.'

'John.' Sherlock calls from the sitting room. 'Take Audrey outside, I think she needs some fresh air.'

'No I wanna stay!' I whine but am silenced by a glare from Sherlock. John firmly pulls me from the room and deposits me at the foot of the stairs.

' _Fine_.' I holler up after him. 'Didn't want to discuss the stupid, boring missing missile plans anyway!'

* * *

'No, no, _no_! Of course he's not the boy's father!' I jump violently at Sherlock's sudden bitch fit. 'Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!'

'Oh! The turn-ups!' I smack my hand to my forehead in mock frustration. ' _Why didn't I think of that_?'

'Knew it was dangerous.' John mutters behind his laptop. Sherlock turns his head but his eyes stay fixed on the television. 'Hmm?'

John smirks. 'Getting you into crap telly.' He checks his watch. 'Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?'

'Yep.' Sherlock replies quickly. I give him a sharp look. 'He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood – again.'

While John and Sherlock begin bickering about the solar system, my mind strays to the one person that dominates my every thought. Sure, I had known the confronation at the pool was inevitable, but I had been hoping divine inspiration would strike and present to me some master plan to rid myself of the almightly pile of shit I'm in. Yes, Sherlock knew something was up, but never in his wildest dreams would he have thought it would involve Moriarty.

Well, maybe in his _wildest_.

Maybe I could win Moriarty over with a nice cup of tea. We are both Irish, after all.

" _Tea, Jim?_

_Ah no, thanks Audrey but I'm okay._

_Ah go on. Just a tiny sip?_

_No I'm grand, really Audrey I –_

_Just a drop? Sure it's only a little smidge of a cup! Ah go on go on go on go on go..."_

No. No I don't think he'll understand the Father Ted references. I'll just have to face the bastard.

John closes the lid of his laptop with a snap and stands up, stretching. 'I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge.'

'Mmm!' Sherlock replies, eyes still glued to the telly.

'Thought you broke up with her after she _abandoned us_ at the Chinese performance…thingy?' I twist my neck from where I'm lying on the sofa to frown at him.

'She wants to talk, that's all.' John stops at the door. 'Uh, milk. We need milk.

'I'll get some.'

I gape incredulously at Sherlock. 'Sorry, did I just hear that correctly?'

John turns back with a look of disbelief on his face. 'Really?!'

'Really.'

'And some beans, then?' John adds hopefully.

'Mmm.' Sherlock grunts.

John hesitates, still surprised, but then nods and walks away. Sherlock continues to gaze at the TV until he hears the downstairs door open and close, then he pulls out his laptop from where it was tucked underneath his arse.

'Poor John _._ ' I mutter, knowing he'll never make it to Sarah's.

'I'm sure he won't miss the milk and beans _too_ much.' Sherlock sighs, misunderstanding my words, and begins typing.

" _Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect._

_The Pool. Midnight."_

He jumps from up from his armchair and heads towards the door, pausing to tie his scarf. 'I take it you know what happens next?' He calls behind him.

 _That I do_.

* * *

Our footsteps reverberate throughout the eerily quiet room, bouncing off the multi-coloured changing room doors. Sherlock walks cautiously towards the shallow end of the pool, one hand grasping the memory stick, the other wrapped tightly around mine.

'Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present.' He calls out, breaking the silence. 'Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from _this_.' He gestures with the memory stick, then begins to turn in a slow circle as he waits for a response.

A door opens halfway down the room and I cringe, waiting for John to make his appearance. Sherlock looks over his shoulder, still holding the memory stick aloft as John walks through the door and into the pool area, wrapped tightly in a hooded jacket, his hands tucked into the pockets. He turns and looks at Sherlock, who stares back at him in absolute shock.

'Evening.' John begins stiffly. 'This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?'

' _John_ …' Sherlock says softly, confusion etched across his face. '..What the hell..?

'Bet you never saw _this_ coming.' John keeps his head down but I can hear the tremor in his voice. 'Sherlock it's not -' I try to reassure him but he raises a hand, silencing me.

Sherlock starts to walk slowly towards the man he had believed to be his friend. With a look of despair that matches Sherlock's, John takes his hands from his pockets and pulls open his jacket to reveal a cluster of bombs strapped to his chest. A sniper's laser immediately begins to dance around over the bombs.

'What ... would you like me ... to make him say ... next?' John's voice almost breaks on the last word.

'Stop it.' Sherlock snaps, searching the room for an explanation.

'Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him.' John winces before he relays the rest of the message. 'I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.'

' _Who are you_?' Sherlock calls out, turning on spot as he tries to look in all directions. A door opens at the far end of the pool.

'I gave you my number.'

 _Oh Christ. Here we go._ I shut my eyes and shuffle behind Sherlock.

'I thought you might call.' Moriarty's soft voice resounds around us. With one step he moves out of the shadows, hands in his pockets as he casually begins to stroll alongside the deep end of the pool, heading towards Sherlock, John, and I.

Confusion, followed by apprehension dawns on Sherlock's face as he recognises " _Jim from I.T"_.

'Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket ...' Moriarty smirks as Sherlock reaches down to his trouser pocket and pulls out a pistol. '...or are you just pleased to see me?'

Sherlock raises the pistol and aims it towards him. 'Both.'

Moriarty stops and appraises him, unafraid. 'Jim Moriarty. _Hi!_ ' He turns to face John just as the sniper's laser flickers over his upper chest. Sherlock briefly turns his head towards him, a questioning look on his face.

Moriarty notices the exchange. 'Oh don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle.' He waves a hand lazily and begins pacing. 'I don't like getting my hands dirty.' Once reaching the corner of the pool, he stops. 'I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see.' He grins widely at Sherlock. 'Like you!'

'Consulting criminal.' Sherlock utters softly. 'Brilliant.'

'Isn't it?' Moriarty smiles proudly. 'No-one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will.'

Sherlock cocks the pistol. 'I did.'

Moriarty begins advancing on him. 'You've come the closest. Now you're in my way.'

'Thank you.' Sherlock replies calmly.

'Didn't mean it as a compliment.'

Sherlock narrows his eyes, his raised hand unwavering. 'Yes you did.'

'Yeah, okay, I did.' Moriarty shrugs his shoulders, continuing to stroll closer. 'But the flirting's over, Sherlock ... _Daddy's had enough now_!'

I wince at the high pitch, heart beating one hundred miles per hour. _What's he playing at? Why hasn't he seen me yet?_

'People have died.' Sherlock states coldly.

'That's what people _DO_!' Moriarty screams the last word furiously, and in spite of myself I let out a tiny squeak in terror. Feeling Sherlock stiffen in front of me, I clamp my hands over my mouth.

Moriarty barks out a laugh, clapping his hands together. ' _Finally_ , Audrey darling!' He shouts. 'I was beginning to worry you'd become mute!' He flashes me a dazzling smile. 

_Chance would be a fine thing._

Sherlock and John both snap their heads around to look at me, bewildered. Ignoring Sherlock's protests, I step around him turn to face those deep brown eyes.

Moriarty moves as though to reach out to me, but is blocked by Sherlock. 'Take it.' He snaps, brandishing the memory stick.

'Huh?' Moriarty tears his eyes away from mine. 'Oh! That!' He reaches out for the stick, grinning. 'The missile plans!'

He takes it from Sherlock's fingers and brings it to his mouth, kissing it. Lowering the memory stick, he looks at it fondly before nonchalantly _tossing it_ into the pool. ' _Boring_!' He sing-songs. 'I could have got those _anywhere_.'

He spins around, eyes locking on me. 'No, I'm here for something _entirely_ different.' Stopping beside John, he extends one hand. 'Be a dear and reach into your left-hand side pocket, Johnny Boy.' John glances nervously at Sherlock, but complies. His eyes widen in confusion as he slowly pulls a small, rectangular object from his pocket - a book.

Taking the book, Moriarty licks his index finger and begins flicking through the pages, stopping with a loud 'Aha!'

Sherlock looks from my face to Moriarty's, shock slowly replacing his frown. 'Audrey...What..?' I stare at him imploringly, silently begging him to understand.

Moriarty comes to a halt before me, a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat spreading across his face.

'If you would do the honours, _ma chère_.'


	12. Fava Beans And A Nice Chianti

With trembling hands, I take the book and glance down at the unfamiliar passage. Throwing Sherlock and John a silent " _forgive me"_ , I begin reading.

_"Just to yourself, what do you call him?_

_He's a monster. I think of him as one of those pitiful things that are born in hospitals from time to time. They feed it, and keep it warm, but they don't put it on the machines and it dies."_

My eyes dart to the end of the paragraph, frantically searching for any clues. The book is bound in simple brown leather, showing no indication as to what horrors I might read out. And then I spot it – that one name with the ability to send shivers down any spine. _Oh_ _no. God no…anyone but him._

Moriarty clears his throat loudly, checking his watch as he does so. 'Move it, Audrey.' He snaps impatiently. I can't help the tremble in my voice as I resume reading.

"… _Hannibal Lecter is the same way in his head, but he looks normal and nobody could tell."_

I shut my eyes, and gently close the book. Moriarty places a hand on my shoulder, mockingly reassuring. 'That's my girl.' Chuckling softly, he aims his triumphant grin towards Sherlock.

Sherlock, who is now staring at me with a look akin to horror. 'Audrey... _What did you_ –'

'Oh do _shut up_ , Sherly.' Moriarty cuts across him sharply. 'Don't you know it's rude to ignore guests?' He smiles and gestures towards the door he entered through. 'Evening, _Doctor Lecter_.'

Clear, clipped footsteps echo around the room, slowly and deliberately.

Strange, we were about to meet arguably one of the most dangerous, downright _twisted_ fictional villains ever, yet all I could think was: _Merde. I shouldn't have used vanilla body lotion today – Might as well roll myself in sugar and sprinkles while I'm at it._

'Would anybody care to explain...' A deep, accented voice sounds from the end of the room. '… _what_ I am doing here?'

'Doctor Lecter.' Moriarty calls out to him once more. 'If you would just join us over here, I'd be happy to oblige.' This is followed by a long sigh, and some more creepy footsteps.

I feel a hand gently tugging at my arm, pulling me back. Sherlock rests his finger on his lips when I look at him questioningly, pushing me behind him instead. John has also managed to scoot over to where we're standing, hands held aloft as he attempts to avoid, what can only be described as a kamikaze's dream, strapped to his chest.

I turn my attention back to Moriarty and the now visible Hannibal Lecter. The first thing I notice is his height – he is tall. Very tall. His greying hair is pushed back from his face, revealing sharp cheekbones and dark, deep-set eyes. He is dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit, a large gold pocket watch hangs from his waistcoat. All in all, he makes quite the handsome man.

_A pretty face to hide the not-so pretty personality. Just like Moriarty._

Oh, and did I forget to mention he's wearing a white apron at his waist? 

Hannibal continues to regard us with an air of indifference. 'I have brought you here,' Moriarty begins, 'because I am in need of your….talents.' He grins widely at this and starts pacing the floor. 'Don't worry though.' He comes to a halt in front of Hannibal. 'We won't keep you here forever.'

I almost laugh at this. Something tells me Hannibal Lecter has never felt _worried_ in his entire life.

'I see.' Hannibal replies shortly, showing little interest. 'And how, exactly, did I come to be here?'

'Aha.' Moriarty laughs softly. 'Now _that's_ the interesting part.' He gestures for me to stand beside him.

Sherlock keeps his hand grasped tightly around my arm. 'Leave her out of this, _Moriarty_.' He spits.

Moriarty _tsks_ at him, shaking his head as he strolls over in our direction. 'You know, this is really none of your concern, Sherlock.' He pauses for a moment. 'Well…not _yet_ it isn't.'

John, seeing his opportunity, races forward and slams himself up against Moriarty's back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. 'Sherlock, Audrey, run!' He shouts breathlessly. Sherlock takes a step back in surprise, re-aiming his pistol at Moriarty.

' _Good!_ Very good.' Moriarty laughs in delight.

'If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up.' John threatens him savagely.

'Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets.' Grimacing angrily, John pulls Moriarty even closer onto the bomb that is now sandwiched between them.

'They're so touchingly loyal.' Moriarty scowls. 'But, _oops_!' He grins briefly at John, then looks towards Sherlock. 'You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.' His grin widens as a new laser point appears in the middle of Sherlock's forehead. ' _Gotcha_.'

Moriarty chuckles as John releases his grip on him and steps back, holding his hands up. He glances around at him, then turns back towards Sherlock. ' _Westwood!_ ' He gestures indignantly, brushing down his suit. Hannibal, I notice, seems to nod appreciatively at this.

Lowering his hands he stands calmly in front of Sherlock who is still aiming the pistol at his head. 'D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?'

'Oh, let me guess…I get killed.' Sherlock sighs tiredly.

'Kill you?' Moriarty grimaces. 'N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'mgonna kill you anyway someda _y_. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no.' His grin slowly fades. 'If you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you.' His eyes run briefly down Sherlock's body. 'I'll burn the _heart_ out of you.' He snarls viciously.

'I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.' Sherlock replies softly.

'But we both know,' Moriarty looks pointedly at me. 'That's not quite true.' Sherlock blinks involuntarily. 'Now,' Moriarty announces loudly. 'Where were we? Ah yes.' He strides over and snatches my hand, pulling me with him.

' _Sherlock, no_.' I reassure him before he takes a step, triggering the sniper. 'I'm fine.' Taking a deep breath, I turn to face the two most deadly men I'll ever meet.

'Doctor Lecter,' Moriarty brandishes a hand at the man towering above me. 'I'd like to introduce you to _Mademoiselle_ Dubois.'

' _Please don't eat me._ ' I blurt out before I can help myself. 'I have…worms in my…tubes.' At this point, I don't even care I just bury my face in my hands.

' _Audrey_.' Moriarty growls threateningly before covering it up with a wide grin. 'Don't spoil the surprise! Tell Doctor Lecter what you can do. Go on.' He encourages, pushing me closer to Hannibal. 'Good girl.'

I stare into deep brown, no, almost _maroon_ coloured eyes. They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul, but I see nothing in Hannibal Lecter's. No hint of anger, or suspicion, they're entirely void of emotion. He conceals everything.

 _Eats_ everything as well. _Oh shut up, Aud_.

'I…I w-well I can…um…you see I…' I stutter pathetically.

Hannibal bends down slightly so we are at a more even eye level. 'Come now, Miss Dubois, speak up.'

I decide to abandon looking him in the eye and stare at his black leather shoes instead. When the ringing in my ears begin to fade, I start again. 'You, Hannibal Lecter, are a fictional character. You are a figment of Thomas Harris' imagination. This.. world you find yourself in now is also fictional. The only genuinely _real_ person in this room.. is me.' I finish, looking up at him as I speak. 'That is because,' I continue, 'I have the ability to read myself _in_ , or read characters _out_ , of fictional stories.' I expect him to question me, or get angry, so it's rather surprising when he begins to smile. 'You believe me, then?' I ask uncertainly.

He continues to smile. 'Miss Dubois, do you know what I was doing before you summoned me here?'

I shake my head slowly, eyeing his apron. 'If I'm going to be honest with you, Doctor Lecter, I'm not sure I really want to know.'

'Very well.' He nods understandingly. 'Let's just say, I had bone to pick with someone.'

 _Ugh_.

'Referring back to your previous question, Miss Dubois, I can only say I'm glad there is an explanation as to why, on the way to retrieve some paprika from my pantry, I suddenly found myself in a swimming pool locker room.'

I smirk despite myself. 'Does anything faze you, Doctor Lecter?'

'You'll just have to wait and see.' He continues to regard me with a look of amusement. 'For now, consider me impressed.'

I feel myself blushing at the compliment _. Oh for god sakes Audrey, this is so you! Any man shows the slightest bit of interest in you and you turn all girly and giggly. Get a bloody grip woma-_

'Well,' Moriarty interrupts my me, myself and I time. 'We'd best be off.' He nonchalantly gazes around the room. 'So nice to have a proper chat.' He grins at Sherlock who, might I add, has had his pistol aimed at Moriarty for the duration of the whole conversation.

'Audrey, poppet.' Moriarty calls to me. 'Will be in touch soon.' He touches the tips of his fingers to his lips and blows a kiss in my direction.

Smooth.

'Doctor Lecter, we have much to discuss.' He begins to lead Hannibal from the room, pausing to throw Sherlock one last glance. 'Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock steps forward to keep him in his sight. 'Catch…you…later.'

' _No you won't!_ ' Moriarty sing-songs from behind the swinging door.

The door closes with a soft _thump_. Sherlock doesn't move for a few seconds, his gun still aimed towards the door, then his gaze drifts across to John and he instantly discards the pistol. Dropping to his knees in front of John ( _Girls, please that's enough._ ), he starts unfastening the bomb-riddled vest.

'All right?' John tilts his head back in response, breathing heavily. ( _Now, really girls, I said that's enough!)_ 'Yeah…yeah, I'm fine.'

Having unfastened the vest, Sherlock jumps up and hurries round behind John, starting to pull the jacket and the bomb vest off in one go.

'Here, let me help.' I offer, taking a step towards them.

' _No_.' Sherlock replies rather aggressively. Seeing my hurt expression, his vice softens. 'No, Audrey, just stay where you are.'

_Merde. He's pissed off._

Finally Sherlock manages to roughly strip the jacket and vest off John's arms. He bends and skims the clothing items as far away along the floor as he can. He turns and stares at John for a moment, then hurries back to pick up the pistol before racing towards the door that Moriarty left through. John's knees buckle and he staggers towards the nearest support, clutching the edge of one of the changing cubicles.

' _John_.' I gasp. Hurrying over to help him up. I wish I could tell him it's over, that we can leave the pool now and go back to Baker Street.

_Any minute now. Any minute he's going to come back in through those same doors, same smug expression on his face._

So instead I just wrap my arms around John's shoulders. Sherlock begins pacing in front of the two of us. Seconds pass, and those seconds turn to minutes. Ten minutes, to be exact.

'He's not coming back, Audrey.' Sherlock says quietly, noticing my frequent glances towards the exit. I stare up at him, confused _. No, no this isn't what happens._

Sherlock regards me coldly. 'He got what he came for.'

* * *

'So you're saying...' Mrs Hudsons starts slowly. '..That Audrey could be in _any_ one of these books?' She gestures to the pile of books resting atop the kitchen table.

'Yes.' Mr Thompson replies tiredly, gazing at the large stack.

'Well she could be _anywhere_!' Mrs Hudson cries out exasperatedly, throwing her hands in the air.

'Yes, _thank you_ for pointing that out, Mrs Hudson.' Mr Thompson says through gritted teeth. He runs a hand over his face. 'Can you remember _anything_ about that day?'

Mrs Hudson places a finger to her chin, thinking. 'Well, I had just got off the phone with Mrs Doyle. She was having a spot of bother with her new dishwasher, you see, and was wondering if I - '

' _No_ , I mean anything to do with the case?' Mr Thompson interrupts her. 'Sherlock's case?'

'Oh the case... well...' She trails off, eyes squinting at nothing in particular. '... _Ah_! Yes I remember something! I heard Sherlock harping on about a banker and a suicide? Or no, it wasn't suicide but - '

'Brilliant!' Mr Thompson cuts her off, jumping from his seat. 'We'll start with the Blind Banker.' He points to the second last book in the pile.

'And what, you're just going to read us into various chapters until we find the one they're in?' Mrs Hudson asks incredulously.

Mr Thompson smiles determindly. 'That's the plan.'


	13. Nobody Puts Baby In A Corner

It has been seven days. Seven days, and no word from Moriarty. Or his new found bestie. Life in 221B has been, dare I say it, downright _boring_.

Not to mention the fact that John and Sherlock have been not-so-subtly avoiding me on account of my royal fuck-up.

Which I _am_ going to fix.

Glancing up from my knitting needles, I attempt to make conversation with the curly one. _Ahem_. 'Sherlock?' He doesn't answer, just nods his head once. I take that as my cue to continue. 'Could you pass me that scissors there, beside you?' Sighing rather dramatically, he wordlessly hands the scissors over to me.

 _Oh for the love of god_.

Sensing that this may take a bit more effort, I begin to aggressively cut the dark green wool.

 _Snip_.

Nothing.

 _SNIP_.

He raises his head slightly, curiosity getting the better of him. 'May I ask _what_ you're doing?'

' _Aha_!' I exclaim loudly. 'He speaks!' Rolling his eyes he returns to mixing his polyjuice potion-like substance.

 _Crumbs_.

'Euh…since you asked..' I continue, forcing him to pay attention to me. 'I'm making a sweater for Catsby.'

He blinks at me for a moment, then carries on working. ' _Of course you are_.' He mutters beneath his breath.

'It's _cold_ outside.' I reply indignantly. 'Plus, it's Christmas in five weeks and I haven't got a chance to buy him anything yet.'

'He is a _cat_ , Audrey. Cat's don't care whether you buy them Christmas presents or not.' I open my mouth to retort but he cuts across me. 'And besides, that cat has enough fat stored to keep him warm until next winter.' He sniffs distastefully.

It takes a second to register what he just said. ' _Did you just_ –' I begin but he cuts me off once more. 'Call your cat fat? Yes, I did. Because it's the truth. And do you want to know why it's the truth? Because you feed him eight times a day.' He looks me right in the eyes. ' _Eight_.'

I shuffle around, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. 'He's a…growing boy.'

Sherlock sets his magnifying glass down and turns to face me. 'You need a serious wake-up call, Audrey.'

'I do _not_ need another lecture.' I scoff, sitting back down into the chair.

' _Yes_ ,' Sherlock marches around the table, stopping in front of me. 'You _do_. Do you have _any_ idea what your actions last week at the pool may have caused? Not to mention the fact you thought you could take on Moriarty, arguably _the_ most dangerous man in England, _alone_.'

I remain silent for a while, taking in his words. He's right. Absolutely, one hundred percent right. It was madness to have thought I wouldn't need Sherlock's help. And now, we're all going to pay the price for my stubbornness.

I notice him still staring at me expectedly. 'I know, Sherlock. You don't have to remind me.' I rub my face tiredly. 'Believe me, if I could take it all back, I would. Like _that_.' I snap my fingers for emphasis. His eyes soften at this and he pauses before speaking again. 'I am sorry if you've felt John and I have been acting somewhat cold towards you. It has just taken some time to adjust to the current situation. I promise you, it was not intentional.'

I stare at him wide eyed. 'What?' He retorts.

'Sherlock…Did you just _apologise_?' His expression immediately turns sour, accompanied with his signature eye-roll. 'You sure know how to turn a conversation around, Audrey.' He snaps, returning to the kitchen table. I snigger, but then feel bad about it. 'Okay, okay I'm sorry! I'm immature, and foolish, and stubborn, and am not worthy of your presence.' He huffs at this, but his expression lightens. 'Please don't be angry with me.' I stand next to him and nudge his arm with my forehead. It's how Catsby always gets back into my good-books when we've quarrelled.

Sherlock gives me the teeniest of smiles. _Ah. It's working_. He clears his throat and glances down at me. 'Have you seen John? I asked him to fetch me my Bunsen Burner _hours_ ago.' I stare at him incredulously.

 _Is he taking the piss or_ …?

'Sherlock, John's been in Dublin...' He sets the metal spoon down. '…Since Tuesday.' I continue slowly. 'He won't be back till tomorrow evening.' Sherlock scratches his head, 'Hmm.' Then resumes stirring.

I laugh and make my way back into the sitting room, when a thought strikes me. 'Hey, Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'Remember that bet we made?' I sidle towards the table.

'You're going to have to refresh my memory.' He mumbles absentmindedly.

'You know, the one we made about me going to you for help about the whole Moriarty situation…' I trail off, smiling. He stops stirring.

' _No_.' He replies quickly, a look close to fear in his eyes.

'Oh _yes_.'

* * *

'This is the most ridiculous film I've ever seen, they can't even _act_!' Sherlock exclaims loudly for the ninth time since Dirty Dancing has started.

'We made a deal Sherlock.' I reply smugly.

* * *

'Right now, that's just plain idiotic. Practising the lift in the lake is _certainly_ not going to make the task any easier - Her clothes are just going to weigh her down! Not to mention the added buoyancy they're _not_ going to have on the night of the performance. It doesn't even make – '

'Sherlock, will you please be _quiet_!'

* * *

'Why are they rubbing their bodies together like that…Are they _mating_ or are they _having sex_?' Sherlock mumbles disgustedly. I sigh loudly.

* * *

"… _Nobody puts Baby in a corner_." I sneak a peek at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye. He groans and buries his face in his hands.

* * *

As the credits roll, I mute the television and turn to face Sherlock, who is looking directly at the wall ahead of us, face void of any expression.

'Well?' I ask through the giggles. 'What did you think?' Sherlock blinks slowly. 'That was ninety minutes of my life I shall never get back.' He replies dismally. 'Oh come _on_!' I poke his shoulder playfully. 'Didn't you like any part of it? Not even the dancing?' He ponders for a moment, and then nods. 'Yes, the dancing was its only saving Grace.' He leans in close to me, as if about to divulge a secret. 'You know, I'm actually quite fond of dancing.' My eyes widen in surprise. ' _You?_ You like dancing?' He grins crookedly in response. 'Can you teach me some moves?' I ask eagerly. He stands up, bones cracking as he stretches. 'Maybe sometime.' He offers his hand towards me and pulls me up from the sofa.

I begin to pull my hand from his but his grip tightens, holding me in place. 'How are you, Audrey?' His eyes search mine, flicking from left to right. 'Really?'

I stare back at him, thinking. 'Ashamed.' I finally reply. 'I'm embarrassed that Moriarty got to me so easily.' I break eye contact and look at the ground, adding softly, 'And that I let both you and John down.'

Sherlock drops my hand and strides towards the bookshelf, running his finger along the spines of several books before he stops at one. Pulling the small book out, he leafs through the pages. 'Read it.' He says, holding the book out to me. I take it and flip the cover over. _Red Dragon_ is typed across the front. As expected, the exact passage I read at the pool is printed on the marked page. I smile sadly, and shake my head. 'I don't think it's going to be as simple as this, Sherlock.'

'No harm in trying.' He insists.

I gather myself before reading, taking in a deep breath.

_"Just to yourself, what do you call him?_

_He's a monster. I think of him as one of those pitiful things that are born in hospitals from time to time. They feed it, and keep it warm, but they don't put it on the machines and it dies._

_Hannibal Lecter is the same way in his head, but he looks normal and nobody could tell."_

I shut the book softly. It wasn't the same. There were no whispers, no flickering images. It had not worked.

'Hmm.' Sherlock removes his hands from beneath his chin. 'Just as I thought. If we're going to read Hannibal Lecter back into his story, we need the same book he was read from.'

'So, you think there's a chance I can fix this?' I ask hopefully. 'That I can send him back?'

'Well, if you could read yourself here…' Sherlock grins, shrugging his shoulders. 'Anything's possible.'

I grin widely in return. We both just stand there actually, smiling like idiots. And in that moment, I feel an enormous swell of affection for Sherlock Holmes. Forgetting myself for a second, I step forward and wrap both my arms around his middle. I feel him stiffen and lift his arms slightly, as if unsure of what to do with them.

'It's okay.' I reassure him. 'You don't have to hug me back, I won't be offended.' I sense him pause before resting both hands lightly on the small of my back.

Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, I pull away soon after, smiling up at him once more. 'Goodnight Sherlock.'

'Goodnight Audrey.'

* * *

_Brriiiiing. Briiiiiing. Briiiiiing._

The shrill sound of a Skype call rouses me from my sleep. I reluctantly roll out of John's bed, (I had taken to sleeping in it when he was away) and grumpily make my way into the sitting room, hell-bent on destroying the source of that incessant noise.

Yawning loudly, I plop myself in the seat at Sherlock's desk and answer the video-call. A charming close-up view of John's nose hair is the sight I'm greeted with.

' 'Lo John.' I mumble tiredly, my voice still thick with sleep. I hear some fumbling as the screen is tilted upwards and brought away from his face.

'Audrey! Hello 'ello, how've you been?' He asks cheerfully.

'Good, good.' I rest my head on one hand, attempting to keep both eyes open. 'How was Dublin?'

'Eh, great yeah.' He sniffs and looks around. 'Was almost mugged on O'Connell Street but apart from that…' He trails off.

'Ah, yeah I told you that might happen.' I nod sympathetically.

'Anyway.' He clears his throat. 'Is Sherlock about?'

'Gimme one sec.' I swivel around in the chair and holler out for Sherlock, four times for good measure. On the fourth shout I hear a faint ' _Shut up!_ '. Twisting round to face John again, I smile sweetly. 'He is now.'

After approximately one minute, I hear Sherlock shuffling out of his room. Turning around to hand him his laptop, I almost drop it in surprise. There, standing at the doorway, is Sherlock Holmes dressed in a bed sheet. And _only_ a bed sheet.

'What do you think this is, a bloody Prince video?' I exclaim incredulously. He ignores me, sinking into his armchair and replies with a simple, 'Coffee'. Rolling my eyes, I trudge into the kitchen and begin the hunt for two clean mugs. I jump slightly when Catsby's soft fur brushes against my legs as he slinks past me, into the sitting room. He gingerly sniffs Sherlock's toes before launching himself up on his lap.

'Audrey, get your cat off me.' Sherlock glances down at Catsby, annoyed.

'You've got hands, do it yourself.'

Sherlock continues to glare at him. I sigh and whistle at the stubborn cat. ' _Catsby_ , _viens ici_. _Maintenant_. ' After three failed attempts, I give up and sit in the armchair opposite him, listening to the conversation.

'…Look, this is a six. There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back and show me the grass.'

'When did we agree that?'

'We agreed it yesterday. Sto – _Jesus Christ!_ '

I jump violently at Sherlock's outburst, sloshing coffee down the front of my nightgown. _Goddamnit, this is silk!_ I look up to see Catsby on the floor and Sherlock standing upright, both hands cradling his…delicates.

'Your bloody cat clawed me!' He exclaims wildly. I hear John's muffled cackling from the computer screen. Rolling my eyes, I scoop down to pick a disgruntled Catsby up. 'Calm down, he was only kneading.' I lift Catsby up into the reverse-Simba position and rub my nose with his. ' _Weren't you, mon chou_? It's not his fault you decided to dress up as Aphrodite, _barley_ concealing yourself!' Sherlock continues to stare venomously at Catsby, until the doorbell rings. Neither of us answer it.

'Now, show me the car that backfired.' Sherlock returns to the video call. The doorbell rings loudly once more. Sighing at Sherlock's 'Shut _up!'_ , I grab a cardigan and make my way down the stairs. _I swear to god if it's another smelly hobo wanting to share secrets with Sherlock I'll -_

My thoughts are interrupted once I open the door to two tall, suit-clad men. 'Good morning, Miss Dubois.' The one on the left greets me, while the other pushes past. 'Mr Holmes here?' He calls to me, already halfway up the stairs.

'Uh...Y-yeah.' I hurry to follow them.

Once inside the flat, the darker one of the two points in the direction of the kitchen with his thumb. 'His room's through the back, get him some clothes.'

'Who the hell are you?' Sherlock twists around in his seat, affronted.

'Sorry, Mr. Holmes. You're coming with us.' Sherlock surveys the man, and clicks his laptop shut. The man continues speaking. 'Please, Mr. Holmes. Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed.' He glances at me and adds, 'You too.'

I frown, crossing my arms. 'Well thanks for the notice! I don't have enough time to even do my hair!' Running around the flat like a madwoman, I grab a pair of cream ballet flats and wrap a red scarf around my neck.

Sherlock keeps his gaze locked on the both of them, deducing his arse off. I cough lightly and stand in between the two men, shrugging my shoulders. 'It's useless, you know. He does what he wants.'

Sherlock smiles smugly and looks up into the man's face. 'Oh, I know _exactly_ where I'm going.'

* * *

John finds the both of us sitting rather awkwardly (Well, I'm awkward. Sherlock's as cool as a cucumber) on a long sofa, me in my nightdress and Sherlock in his sheet.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the fact that the sofa is in Buckingham bloody Palace?

He looks around for a moment, then follows his escort who gestures to him to take a seat before walking away. John holds out his hands in a " _Da fuck is this?"_ kind of way. Sherlock shrugs disinterestedly and looks away again. I just pat the cushion beside me. John joins the both of us and gazes in front of himself for a moment. He then looks at Sherlock, peering closely at his sheet, particularly the section wrapped around his backside.

'Are you wearing any pants?'

'No.'

'Okay.'

John sighs quietly, remaining silent until he makes eye contact with Sherlock once more.

Then starts the laughter.

'You're just as bad,' John gestures to me in between chuckles. 'Is that supposed to be a top or a dress?' I scowl darkly at him, pulling the hem down further over my knees. 'Oh shut up!'

John grins at me, and turns to Sherlock. 'What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what? Here to see the Queen?' And as if on purpose, it was so perfectly timed, Mycroft walks in from the next room.

'Oh, apparently yes.' Sherlock remarks, sending us all into another fit of giggles.

Mycroft throws us a withering look as he bends down and picks up the clothes and shoes from the table, turning to offer them to Sherlock. He gazes at them uninterestedly.

'We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation.' Mycroft warns him sternly. 'Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.'

'What for?' Sherlock shrugs, standing up.

'Your client.'

'And my client is?'

'Illustrious ...' We all turn to look at the man who has just walked into the room. ' ... in the extreme.'

'Harry.' Mycroft stands to greet the man. 'May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?'

Harry laughs, clapping Mycroft on the back. 'Full-time occupation, I imagine.' Sherlock scowls at them. 'And this must be Doctor John Watson,' He continues. 'Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.'

'Hello, yes.' John extends his hand.

'And I'm sorry,' Harry turns to look at me apologetically. 'I don't think we've been introduced.'

'Audrey.' I stand up to shake his hand. 'Audrey Dubois.'

'Dubois?' Harry raises his eyebrows. ' _Parlez-vous français_ , _Mademoiselle Dubois_?'

' _Oui, bien sûr_.' I smile back politely.

Sherlock clears his throat and shuffles towards his brother. 'Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work.' He looks round, nodding once at Harry. 'Good morning.' He starts to walk out of the room when Mycroft slyly steps onto the trailing edge of the sheet behind him, pulling the white cloth off his body. I clamp my hands over my mouth, fighting back the hysteria. Sherlock grabs at the sheet before he completely exposes himself to the world, but not before flashing us a sneak peek of the booty.

 _Swoon_.

With his back still turned to his brother, Sherlock speaks through gritted teeth, ' _Get off my sheet_.'

'Or what?'

'Or I'll just walk away.' He threatens.

'I'll let you.'

' _Oh please, be my guest!_ ' I whisper, obviously louder than I had previously intended, judging by the weird looks thrown my way.

' _Who. Is. My. Client_?' Sherlock spits out.

'Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake – 'Mycroft breaks off and glances at Harry briefly, trying to get his anger under control. ' _Put your clothes on!_ '

* * *

Once Sherlock has returned, (Clothed, I regret to announce) Mycroft begins pouring us each a cup of tea. 'A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen.'

'Why?' Sherlock enquires. 'You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?'

'This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust.' Mycroft opens his briefcase, takes out a glossy photograph and hands it to Sherlock. I take one look at the racy picture and make my own deductions.

 _Ah, Irene Adler. The skank with the bank_. _The hoe with the dough. The ... nah that's the best I've got._

'What do you know about this woman?'

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. 'Nothing whatsoever.'

'Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman. There are many names for what she does. She prefers "dominatrix".'

'Dominatrix.' Sherlock repeats, thoughtfully.

'Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex.' I raise an eyebrow at this.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at Mycroft. 'Sex doesn't alarm me.'

'How would you know?' He sneers.

 _Whoa, calm down there, Regina George_.

'And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs.' Sherlock surmises. 'You're very quick, Mr. Holmes.' Harry comments, impressed. Sherlock looks blankly at him. 'Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?'

'A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time.' Glaring at Harry angrily, Sherlock puts the photographs down on the table.

'You can't tell us anything?' John asks.

'No, John!' I scold him. 'The poor girl's embarrassed enough as it is, let alone…' I trail off as I notice all four head are turned towards me.

'How do you –' Harry begins but Mycroft cuts him off, smiling. 'Lucky guess.' Harry eyes me sceptically, but seems convinced otherwise.

_You know, I genuinely think the world would be better place if I had been born mute._

'How many photographs?' Sherlock enquires, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

'A considerable number, apparently.'

'Will you take the case, Mr Holmes?' Harry asks Sherlock, almost imploringly.

'What case? Sherlock turns and reaches for his overcoat which is draped on the back of the sofa. 'Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, "Know when you are beaten".'

'She doesn't want anything.' Mycroft responds tiredly. Sherlock turns back towards him. 'She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour.'

Sherlock's eyes widen, interest sparking within them. 'Oh, a _power play_. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix.' He glances at John and I cheerfully. 'Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?' He turns around and reaches for his coat again. 'Where is she?'

'Uh, in London currently. She's staying ...' Mycroft begins but Sherlock interrupts him, already on the move. 'Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day.'

'Do you really think you'll have news by then?' Harry asks dubiously.

'No, I think I'll have the photographs.' Sherlock replies confidently before striding out of the room, throwing back a ' _Laterz.'_

Just as I move to follow John, Mycroft takes hold of my arm, pulling me back. 'Audrey, I wonder if I could have a quick word?' He asks quietly, leading me from the sitting room.

'Uh…' I reply, not sure whether I have any say in the matter. Once we're out of sight, he begins talking. 'Sherlock has informed me of the events that transpired at the pool last Thursday. And of the new game-player.' He glances around to make sure we're not heard. 'I do not have enough time on my hands to chase down a psychopathic cannibal as well as run the country. What I really need to know,' He looks almost pleadingly at me. 'Is that there's a way you can fix it. That you can send him back.'

I stare back at Mycroft and nod determinedly. 'I'm working on it.'


	14. Why's It Always Me?

 

'I don't trust him.'

'Firstly, Sebastian, I don't really care what you think. And secondly, he won't be here for long.' Moriarty shoots Sebastian Moran a final glare before prancing through the double doors and joining the neatly groomed psychotherapist at the large, oak table. Grinning widely, he takes a long gulp of red wine before addressing the man.

'Really is such a pleasure to be dining with you, Dr Lecter. I hear you have quite the palate.' His smile deepens. 'I daresay this humble meal will pale in comparison to one of your own…creations.'

Dr Lecter inclines his head slightly, and after a short pause he begins to speak. 'No matter, I'm sure I'll soon have the chance to showcase my culinary talent.'

Moriarty barks out a laugh. 'That's the spirit!' He suddenly leans in close, all hints of humour vanishing. 'I hope you realise how beneficial this will be for the both of us. We're a team, you and I.' He sinks back into the chair, eyes still locked on Dr Lecter's. 'And once we've recruited the third member, nothing will sta - ' He stops midsentence, interrupted by a loud knocking. Face lighting up, he practically bounds from the dining table and towards the tall double doors.

'Speak of the devil! What a coincidence, we were just discussing you… _Miss Dubois_.'

**.........**

**ONE WEEK EARLIER**

John waits in the living room while I duck for cover as Sherlock hurls yet another item of clothing around his (my) bedroom.

'What are you doing?' John finally asks, looking up from his book.

'Going into battle, John. I need the right armour.'

I scoff at this. 'Well, at least we're above being dramatic then.'

Sherlock pushes past me to check himself out in the mirror, wearing a large yellow hi-vis jacket.

'No.' He rips it off again.

I snatch up the white priest collar lying amongst the various costumes. I don't even want to know how he got some of these.

'Here, just use this.' I wave the collar tiredly. 'At least you'll be somewhat believable.' He eyes it dubiously before grabbing it and stuffing it in his pocket. 'It'll have to do.' He checks his watch. 'Come on John, we've business to attend to.'

* * *

'Punch me in the face.'

John stares at Sherlock, dumbfounded. 'Come again?' I grin wickedly between both men. 'Punch him in the face, John.'

'Punch you in the face?' John clarifies. Sherlock rolls his eyes exasperatedly. 'Yes, punch me in the face. Didn't you hear me?'

'I _always_ hear "punch me in the face" when you're speaking, but it's usually sub-text.' 

I begin to clap slowly, nodding appreciatively at John. 'Damn son, your comeback game _strong._ '

'Oh, for God's sakes!' Sherlock cries and with one swift movement, decks John in the face. As Sherlock is shaking out his hand, John pushes me behind him and, taking a deep breath, directs a well-aimed punch at Sherlock's left cheek. Turning away as Sherlock picks himself up, he flexes his hand painfully and examines his knuckles.

'Thank you. That was – that was ...' Sherlock gasps, fingers covering the scratch on his cheekbone, but is cut off as John tackles him to the ground. Completely caught off guard, I fluster around them like a mother hen. 'O-okay boys, that's enough now!'

They continue to scuffle.

After two minutes, I give up trying to interfere and just stand there, hands on hips. 'Look if one of you guys breaks something, don't expect me to become the little _nurse_.' Realising how kinky that sounds, I rephrase. 'What I mean is: _don't come crying to me_.' At this stage, John is chocking Sherlock with his own scarf. 'Fine. Continue to fight like two ratchet ass hoes. _See if I care_.' I huff, folding both arms.

Finally, Sherlock pretends to lose consciousness and John climbs off him, vaguely concerned. Five minutes and one damaged wrist later, we arrive at the door of a white, pristine townhouse in Belgravia. Sherlock presses the intercom and waits for a reply.

'Hello?' A woman's voice sounds from the speaker.

Sherlock stares into the camera, all teary-eyed and flustered. 'Ooh! Um, sorry to disturb you. Um, I've just been attacked, um, and, um, I think they ... they took my wallet and, um, and my phone. Umm, please could you help me?'

'Six.' I whisper to John, who looks at me quizzically. 'He said "um" six times just there.' I explain.

'I can call the police if you want?' The faceless woman replies in a bored tone.

'Oh, would you ... would you mind if I just waited here, just until they come? Thank you. Thank you so much.' Sherlock sniffles pathetically as the woman buzzes us in.

The blonde woman looks at John and I reproachfully. 'I – I saw it all happen. It's okay, I'm a doctor. And this is…my niece.' He gestures to me while I nod earnestly. 'Now, have you got a first aid kit?' The woman points ahead. 'In the kitchen.'

'Oh! Thank you!' Sherlock chirps, following her into the front room.

'Stop fidgeting.' He scolds me as we wait, sitting straight-backed on an elegant sofa. 'You'd be fidgeting if you knew what's about to happen!' I groan as we both hear the unmistakable clicking of heels against the marble floor.

'Hello. Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name.'

' _Here we go_.' I mutter under my breath and place a hand over both eyes. Before Sherlock can say anything, the high heels stop abruptly at the doorway and he turns to greet Miss Adler.

I swear to God I hear his jaw drop five inches from his face. 'I'm - uh…I'm..'

'Oh, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?' She continues to walk until she's standing directly in front of us. And yes, I still have my eyes covered. I gingerly extend a hand towards her. Or, at least, where I think she is.

'Audrey Dubois. Uh…it's a pleasure to meet you Miss Adler.'

She laughs softly, and I feel her take my hand in her own. 'Don't be shy darling, every girl has them.' She then gently pries my other hand off my face, forcing me to look at her.

'Some are more well-endowed then others.' I joke awkwardly, and she smiles warmly in response.

_You know, this is actually not as bad as I thought it would be._

_Except for the fact that Sherlock is infatuated with her already._

_Jealous? Who, me?_

She turns to Sherlock next, and I all but fall off the sofa as she suddenly straddles him. Naked.

Slowly pulling the white collar from his neck, she gazes down at him. 'Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?' Narrowing her eyes, she lifts the white collar to her mouth and bites sharply down on it. As Sherlock stares up in either awe or confusion, I can't really tell, John happens to walk into the room carrying a bowl of water. His eyes are lowered to the bowl, careful not to spill its contents.

'Right, this should do it.' He stops dead in the doorway as he lifts his eyes and takes in the scene in front of him. Irene looks round to him, the collar still in her teeth. John looks at us awkwardly, then down at the bowl before looking up again. 'I've missed something, haven't I?'

I casually slide off the sofa and join John, taking the bowl from his hands in case he drops it. 'You can say that again.' I whisper.

Irene finally steps back from Sherlock and sits down on a nearby armchair, strategically folding her arms and legs. 'Oh, if you'd like some tea I can call the maid.'

'I had some at the Palace.' Sherlock responds coolly.

'I know.'

They stare silently at each other for several seconds. I try to ignore the sudden urge to empty the bowl of water on top of Irene's head.

John and I sit back down on the sofa, looking around the room uncomfortably. 'I had a tea, too, at the Palace, if anyone's interested.' He tries. 'Me too.' I add. 'It was lovely and…balanced...' I trail off as John shoots me a weird look.

At the same time Sherlock is trying, and failing, to deduce Irene, looking up and down her body slowly. 'Give up, Sherlock. It's not going to work.' I finally snap at him, not meaning it to come out as snarky as it did. Irene glances at me, raising one eyebrow, but says nothing, turning to Sherlock instead.

'Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?'

He tilts his head questioningly.

'However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait.'

'You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?' He scoffs.

'No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself.' _Oooh do you want some ice for that burn?_ I giggle at this despite myself, nodding to Irene. ' _Finally_ someone said it.' Sherlock throws me an evil glare, unbuttoning the two top buttons of his shirt to loosen the material around his neck.

Irene points to his cut. 'Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too.' She glances across to John and I momentarily. I raise my hands in defence, shaking my head. 'Don't look at me, I couldn't punch a comatose fly.'

John clears his throat. 'Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all.' He looks down at what he's holding. 'A napkin?'

'Why? Are you feeling exposed?' Irene challenges him. Sherlock picks up his coat, shakes it out and holds it out to her. 'I don't think John knows where to look.'

Ignoring him for the moment, she stands up and walks closer to John. He rolls his neck uncomfortably forcing himself to maintain eye contact with her and not to let his eyes wander lower. 'No, I think he knows exactly where.'

Irene turns to Sherlock who is still holding out the coat while keeping his gaze averted. 'I'm not sure about you.' She takes the coat from him and he walks over to the fireplace, ignoring her comment.

'Well, never mind. We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me, I need to know.' A now clothed Irene sits beside me on the sofa. 'How was it done?'

' _What_?'

'The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?' She explains while kicking off her red-soled shoes. I stare at them longingly.

'That's not why I'm here.' Sherlock states, somewhat confused.

'No, no, no, you're here for the photographs but that's never gonna happen, and since we're here just chatting anyway...' She smiles at Sherlock as I stare pointedly at him and then at the large mirror behind him.

He doesn't get it.

You know, for someone so clever, he can be extremely dim-witted.

'The position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know.' He begins pacing the room.

'Okay, tell me - how was he murdered?' Irene asks.

'He wasn't.'

'You don't think it was murder?' She persists.

'I know it wasn't.'

'How?'

'The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room.' He explains confidently.

She pauses. 'Okay, but how?'

'So they are in this room? Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in.' After a moments deliberation, he nods to me as well. 'You too, Audrey.' I stick my bottom lip out and frown at him, hoping he notices my displeasure. His expression softens slightly, and he gives me a tiny nod. I sigh and follow John from the room.

In the hallway John looks around, then picks up a magazine from a nearby table and begins rolling it up. Tossing him the lighter Sherlock acquired at (stole from) the Palace, he waves the paper over the flame, pulling it away once it starts to smoke. I glance around the room, looking for the small white fire alarm.

'There.' I point to the left-hand corner, by the stairway. 'There's one over there.' It is only a matter of seconds before the shrill alarm begins to sound. Satisfied with his work, John attempts the put the flame out, smacking it against the ground.

'….I said you can turn it _off_ now, John.' We hear Sherlock shout from the living room.

'Yeah, give us a sec!' I holler over the shrieking alarm, desperately searching for a vase of water. My search is cut short though, as three burly men come rushing down the stairs, all holding pistols. The first one raises his gun and fires it up at the smoke alarm, shattering it. The two other men hurry towards John and I, aiming their pistols at us.

_Shit. Why do I always forget these parts in the book?_

'Thank you.' John mutters, raising both hands and motioning at me to do the same. The blonde-haired man kicks the living room door open and grabs me roughly around the middle, pushing the barrel of the gun against the side of my head. Sherlock spins around, his eyes widening in shock.

_Sorry_. I mouth at Sherlock.

'Miss Adler, on the floor.' The blonde man holding me instructs Irene. His colleague shoves her to her knees beside John, who is doubled over with his hands behind his head and a pistol pointed to the back of his neck.

'Don't you want me on the floor too?' Sherlock asks warily.

'No, sir, I want you to open the safe.' The blonde man points with his free hand.

'American. Interesting.' Sherlock immediately detects the accent. 'Why would you care?' He glances across at Irene as she puts her hands behind her head.

'Sir, the safe, now, please.' The man repeats.

'I don't know the code.'

The man shakes his head disbelievingly. 'We've been listening. She said she told you.'

'Well, if you'd been _listening_ , you'd know she didn't.' Sherlock insists, narrowing his eyes.

'I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr. Holmes.'

'Oh for god's sakes, if you want the code just ask Irene!' I burst out angrily. The man tightens his grip around me, and presses the gun forcefully against my temple. 'One more word from you missy, and I'll blow your pretty brains out.'

_So bloody melodramatic_. If I wasn't so terrified, I'd laugh.

'Mr. Holmes doesn't...' Irene begins to say, but is cut off with the same threat.

The blonde man growls, frustrated. 'Mr Archer, at the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.'

' _What_?' John exclaims, panicking as Mr Archer presses the muzzle of his pistol into the back of his neck and cocks the gun.

'I don't have the code.' Sherlock repeats through gritted teeth.

' _One_.' The man begins counting.

' _I don't know the code_.' Sherlock's voice rises to a shout.

' _Two_.'

'She didn't tell me anything, _I don't know it_!' Sherlock is frantic now. He looks across to Irene who lowers her gaze pointedly downwards.

' _Three_.'

'No, stop!' Sherlock exclaims, just before the pistol fires. I leave out the breath I'd been holding in, shaking slightly.

The American raises his free hand to stop his sniper. Sherlock's gaze becomes distant as his mind works frantically. He slowly turns towards the safe and lowers his hands, punching in the code. The safe beeps and with a sharp _click_ , it unlocks. Irene smiles in satisfaction as John sags to the floor in relief, shutting his eyes.

The man grins at Sherlock, and loosens his grip on me. 'Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please.'

Before opening the safe, Sherlock glances at me. Catching on immediately, I give a teensy nod. With a quick wink, he throws the safe door open, shouting, ' _Vatican Cameos!_ '

Instantly, John, Sherlock and I all duck for cover as the pistol aimed straight out of the safe is triggered. The gun fires, hitting Mr Archer squarely on the chest. Sherlock grabs for the blonde man's pistol as Irene spins around on her knees and savagely elbows her guard in the delicates. Sherlock holds the pistol's end and smashes it across the man's face, rendering him unconscious.

'There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping an eye on the building.' Sherlock hurries out of the room as John tucks Mr Archer's gun into the back of his jeans and follows him. Irene walks over to the empty safe and stares into it, wide-eyed. I quickly run after Sherlock and John, not wanting to be alone with her.

I arrive just as Sherlock is pointing the pistol into the air, firing it five times. 'Police are on their way.' He turns and trots back into the house.

I wag a finger disapprovingly at him as he passes. 'Sherlock! What did I tell you about unnecessary shooting?' He just smirks and continues to swag into the living room. 'Go check the rest of the rest of the house.' He calls back to John and I. 'See how they got in.'

John sighs and I check my phone for the time. ' _Nyugh._ ' I groan. 'We're gonna miss Mad Men!'

* * *

'No careful, _careful!_ Don't whack his head off the staircase!' I instruct John as Sherlock's noggin unceremoniously thumps against the marble stairs for the umpteenth time. 'Bloody hell.' John gasps. 'For such a thin man he weighs a _tonne_.'

'Muscle is heavier than fat.' I explain, feeling my face heat up as John looks at me pointedly. 'Not that I was looking at his muscle…'

He waves a hand, and sinks down onto one of the stone steps. 'Well today has been most eventful.'

'Indeed.' I agree tiredly. After a moments silence, John speaks again. 'So, what did you think of her? Irene, I mean.' I turn away from him, suddenly finding the nearby oak tree fascinating. 'Oh you know…she was cool…I suppose…' I shrug my shoulders, feigning nonchalance. John nods at this and begins to smirk. 'Sherlock sure seemed to find her interesting.' I twist my head sharply, turning back to give him the evils. 'Yes well, why should I care? He's perfectly free to have _interest_ in whomever he chooses.' I sniff haughtily and flounce towards the gateway. I hear John get up to join me, leaving Sherlock splayed across the middle and bottom steps like a sack of potatoes.

_Where's Lestrade to take a picture when you need him?_

'He's very fond of you, you know.' John says after a while. 'In his own way.' I start to perk up after this, and turn to grin at John. 'Well I'm very fond of him too. The both of you.' I glance to my left and see a black taxi pulling up. 'Come on.' I pat John's shoulder and make my way back to Sherlock. 'Let's go get Princess Aurora.'

**ONE WEEK LATER**

' _John, I'm going out for a walk!_ ' I holler up at him from the end of the staircase. After hearing a muffled ' _m'kay_ ', I pull my red beret on and march out the door. Just as I'm rounding the corner of Baker Street, my phone _dings_ a text alert.

" _Get into the car._

_Be a good girl and don't make a fuss._

_JM_ "

I groan as a shiny black Audi pulls up beside me. ' _Are you fucking kidding me_?' The dark haired driver steps out and opens the door, gesturing inside the car. 'No need for that kind of language, Miss Dubois.' He grins dangerously. Begrudgingly, I slide into the back seat, only to be physically assaulted by a black cloth bag. A pair of rough hands forcibly yank the bag over my head, plunging my vision into darkness.

'Is this really necessary?' I sigh, totally D-O-N-E with everything. The driver only chuckles in response. I sense another person in the seat next to mine, but he (guessing by the calloused hands) remains silent.

_Gosh darn it…If only Sherlock was here to witness that astute observation._

About forty long minutes later, I detect the crunching sound of gravel beneath the car's wheels. At this point, I'm guessing we're well out of the city. The car stops and a cool breeze hits my face as the door is opened. My blindfold is removed and I let out a loud _'Holy shit_ ' on seeing the sheer size of the house, no _mansion_ , which stands before me. Once inside, I'm lead through a vast hallway and into darkened office.

'Hat and coat off please.' The clipped, accented voice is embodied by a tall Alexander Skarsgard look-alike. His hand is extended, waiting for me to comply. I attempt to still the shaking in my fingers as I undo the buttons of my pea coat, determined to appear somewhat composed. Once my coat and hat are hung inside the cloakroom, I follow Mr tall, blonde and Nordic towards a set of double doors, their length reaching the top of the high ceiling. He knocks against the wooden door three times, each bang sending my heart into palpitations.

_Okay Aud, here we go._

The door is flung open, revealing an unnervingly excited Moriarty. 'Speak of the devil! What a coincidence, we were just discussing you Miss Dubois.' He shoos my escort from the room, 'That's all for now, thank you Moran', and gracefully slams the door in his face. Placing one hand on the small of my back, he leads me to the large dining table, pointing to the chair directly opposite Hannibal Lecter.

'Do sit down… Wendy _Darling_.'

I narrow my eyes suspiciously at this. _He's not gonna make me read out Captain Hook, is he?_ As if hearing my thoughts, he begins to chuckle, shaking his head.

'Oh no, I don't need any more favours.' He tilts his head to one side, eyes glinting. ' _Yet._ ' Taking his glass of wine, he lazily swirls the blood-red liquid. 'I have a proposition to make.'

I shift uncomfortably. _This should be good._

'It has come to my attention that your powers are very much… _overlooked_ , shall we say? Why, a gift likes yours should be used to the best of its ability, not left to _…fizzle_ out.' He flutters his fingers as he says this, his mouth curling into a grin. 'I can give you the attention you need, I can _train_ you.'

He rises from his seat, strolling around the table until he comes to a halt behind me. 'Just imagine what you could accomplish.' He places both hands on my shoulders, bending down so we are at eyelevel. ' _With me_.'

_Eugh._ I shudder slightly. _Way to get your creep on._

Straightening up again, he gestures to Hannibal. 'With the both of us.' But Hannibal, sensing my fear, begins to tut, shaking his head. 'Now now, Mr Moriarty, can't you see the little bird is frightened?'

_Little bird? Really?_

I clear my throat, deciding it's probably about time to leave. 'Um – Could I think about it, please?'

_If I don't decline immediately, maybe he won't feed me to Hannibal._

Moriarty remains silent, polishing off the contents of his wine glass before replying. '…Yeah alright.' He shrugs his shoulders, bored with the conversation already. 'The next time I speak with you, you'll give me your answer.' He keeps his eyes directly on mine, his mouth turned up in a half-smile, half-sneer. 'Please,' he gestures to the food-laden table, 'Help yourself.'

I eye the food cautiously because, you know, _cannibalism_.

'No thank you.'

The smile vanishes from Moriarty's face. 'I insist.'

Deciding it best to just comply, I pluck a grape from a crystal fruit bowl and pop it into my mouth. The room is impossibly silent, save for my quiet munching. 'These grapes are good.' I remark conversationally.

'Tell me, Audrey.' Dr Lecter addresses me with a good-natured expression. 'Do you enjoy cooking?'

'Not if I can help it.' I answer truthfully. 'My mum is French, so she does most of the _cuisiner_.'

' _Ah, je vois_.' He replies in French. ' _Serait t-il possible de parler en français pour quelques minutes?_ '

**(Ah, I see. Would it be possible to speak in French for a few minutes?)**

I frown slightly, caught off-guard. ' _Oui, bien sûr_.'

**(Yes, of course.)**

_'Bon. Agir normalment. Fais comme si on parlait de la cuisine.'_

**(Good. Act natural. Pretend we are talking about food.)**

I nod quickly, catching on.

Dr Lecter speaks in a light-hearted,conversational tone. _'Avez-vous l'intention d'accepter son offre?'  
_

**(Are you going to accept his offer?)**

' _Non. Aucune chance._ '

**(Not a chance.)**

_'Bon_.' He nods his head in approval. _'Donc, il faut que vous m'écoutiez attentivement. Il a un plan pour vous, un plan qui pourrait vous mettre en danger. En ce moment,je ne connais pas ce que ses projets incluent, mais -'_

**(Good. Now, you need to listen carefully. He has a plan for you, a plan that could put you in danger. At present, I am not sure what these plans include but -')**

'Time to go, Audrey!' Moriarty cuts Dr Lecter off loudly. 'It must be passed your bedtime.' His eyes narrow dangerously and he rises from the table. 'You can continue your _conversation_ with Dr Lecter some other time.'

I clench my fists. 

_Son of a bitch._

Dr Lecter, cool as a cucumber, laughs lightly and glances at his watch. 'Mr Moriarty is right, it's nearing midnight.'

 Moriarty offers me a hand as I rise from the table, grabbing onto it tightly. 'I'll be in touch soon, Audrey... Could be tomorrow, could be next month…' He trails off, absentmindedly swinging our interlocked hands. '…I dunno.' Coming to a halt at the double doors, he lifts my hand to his face, lips gently brushing against my knuckles. It would have been an oddly sweet moment, had it not been ruined by the very loud and sudden, ' _Moran! Get in here!_ '

He smiles to the rather pissed-off looking man and literally pushes me out the door and into his arms. 'Take her home.' And with that, he once again showcases his talent in slamming doors.

Moran, my coat and hat already draped over one arm, turns to face me with a rueful expression. 'Let's take you home, little bird.'

I sigh loudly, silently cursing whatever fucked-up genes gave me this bloody " _power_ ". In true Neville Longbottom fashion, I gaze forlornly up at Moran. 'Why's it always me?'


	15. I'll Have What She's Having

* * *

DON'T TELL SHERLOCK. I REPEAT, DO NOT TELL SHERLOCK. The words flash across my brain every few seconds, bright and insisting. I swiftly cross the road and approach Baker's Street, attempting to get as much distance between myself and Moran in as little space of time. As if to darken my already foul mood, the sky begins to grumble dangerously and in no time I'm drenched to the skin.

' _Typical._ ' I say out loud as I fumble for the keys of the apartment. 'I mean, why _would_ the universe give me powers that would actually come in _handy_? Like controlling the weather, or telekinesis perhaps? But _no_ , no you had to give me the ability to read _PSYCOPATHIC SERIAL KILLERS FROM BLOODY EFFING BOOKS_.' As soon as the words leave my lips, the rain drops cease hitting me, as if a shield surrounds my body.

Looking around in bewilderment, I whisper softly, '…. _God?_ '

'No I'm afraid not. Sorry to disappoint.' A loud voice behind me replies exasperatedly.

' _The fuck - ?_ ' I exclaim, twisting around to identify the stranger, only to be met by a vaguely pissed-off looking Mycroft holding an umbrella over both of our heads. My face burning with embarrassment, I stare at him imploringly. 'I swear I'm not crazy.' He rolls his eyes and reaches across me, opening the front door. 'Why do you have a key for –' I begin to ask but am silenced by a _Do-you-really-need-to-ask-me-that_ sort of look.

As we cross the threshold, John and Sherlock both begin simultaneously interrogating.

'Where've you been Audrey!?' – John.

'What's _he_ doing here?' – Sherlock.

Both men are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Sherlock snaps the newspaper back in front of his face, his eyes peering suspiciously over the top.

'Uh…sorry John, I got lost on my way back.' I improvise. 'Had to ask this elderly couple for directions. Lovely people, very helpful. Eh…Moira and…Pat? Yes, haha, that's it – Moira and Pat!' I nod my head in a very business-like fashion and spin around, busying myself with making a pot of tea.

'Audrey.'

Silence.

' _Audrey_.' Sherlock warns once again.

I begin humming the Game of Thrones theme song.

'Audrey you, and quite frankly the entire universe, know that you're the worst liar in the history of all prevaricators and deceivers.'

_Humming intensifies_.

'Audrey, _I swear_ to –'

'Sherlock, shut up and tell me where the photographs are.' Mycroft interrupts his brother sharply.

'They're perfectly safe.' Sherlock replies sourly.

Mycroft eyes him scathingly. 'Yes, in the hands of a _fugitive sex worker_.'

Sherlock lays the newspaper on the table, and shakes his head thoughtfully. 'She's not interested in blackmail. She wants...protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?'

Mycroft nods. 'How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are _tied_.' The side of his mouth twitches, reveling in his genius for a moment. 

Bending to scoop Catsby up, I absentmindedly scratch behind his ears while internally quarrelling with myself - If I tell Sherlock, he'll surely step in and put an end to Moriarty's meddling.

But that's exactly what Moriarty wants; me to go running back to Sherlock. After all, what is the point in his extravagant spectacle if it is to be without an audience? If no one is there to watch each piece of the puzzle slide into place, then did it even happen?

_No_. I immediately resolve the internal issue, and come to a conclusion. _I was sucked into this story with one purpose, and one purpose alone – to save Sherlock Holmes._

I will _not_ let him jump.

'Audrey, did you just fist pump the air?' John's questioning tone wakes me from the intense moment I was having inside my head.

'Just uh…just…stretchin'...' I reach up to the ceiling with my other hand and yawn, feigning fatigue to try and hide the almighty embarrassment colouring my face.

Just as John opens his mouth to say something, a very loud, very feminine, and very, _ahem_ _R-rated_ moan fills the room. Every scandalised male head turns in the direction of the nearest female.

Which happens to be me.

I stare wide-eyed at each shocked face, too stunned to even reply. Finally, I point my finger at the accusers.

'First of all how _dare_ you.'

Before I can begin my rant, Sherlock waves a hand in my direction. 'Relax Audrey, we all know you're not capable of making such noises.' He scoffs and smirks to John in a ' _Amma right?_ ' sort of way.

I make an odd, strangled – sounding squeak of protest, too mortified to even consider a bitchy retort. It soon transpires though, that I need not worry about such things. Mycroft smiles good – naturedly at his fucktard brother and, with the airs and graces of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth herself, he says: 'That's rich coming from you, brother dearest.'

_Ohhhhh._

I prance over to Sherlock and press the back of my hand against his forehead. ' _Would you like some ice for that burn_?' I turn to Mycroft and place the other hand over my heart. 'Marry me, Mycroft Holmes?'

He smiles briefly before re-addressing the task at hand. 'I heard you got into a spot of bother whilst attempting to retrieve the photos. Americans, was it?'

John looks up from his newspaper to glare at Mycroft. 'Yeah, thanks for the heads up, _by the way._ '

Sherlock is quick to join John in the Mycroft-bashing. 'Yes it would be greatly appreciated if you could warn us next time CIA – trained killers plan on interrupting the case, hmm? Nearly blew John _and_ Audrey's brains – ' He stops short as the room is once again filled with Irene Adler's most intimate noises.

Sherlock speaks up immediately, drawing our attention away from his phone. 'Look, there's nothing you _can_ do and nothing she _will_ do as far as I can see.'

Mycroft narrows his eyes. 'I can put maximum surveillance on her.' His phone starts buzzing as he says this. Taking the vibrating object from his pocket, he swiftly leaves the room. 'Scuse me.'

Sherlock watches him leave, frowning suspiciously.

'Why does your phone make that noise?' John pipes up after a moment of silence. ' _Yes_ , Sherlock.' I grin wickedly. 'Why _does_ your phone make that noise?'

'It's a text. A text alert. It means I've got a text.' He replies in a clipped tone.

'And does your text alert _always_ make that sound?' John asks dubiously, a hint of a smirk forming around his lips. Sherlock shrugs wordlessly.

Right on cue, the phone orgasms again.

I eye the object, almost impressed by the intensity of the noise. ' _I'll have what she's having_.'

John chuckles at this, wagging a finger at me. 'Aha! I got that.' He looks smugly at Sherlock. 'I understand that reference.'

'Oh _goody_.' Sherlock retorts scathingly, engrossed in the article.

'…Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.' Mycroft re-enters the room, snapping his phone shut.

'What else does she have?' Sherlock asks him without looking up from the paper.

Mycroft looks at him enquiringly.

'Irene Adler.' Sherlock explains. 'The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more.' He stands up and faces his brother, gauging his reaction. 'Much more.'

Mycroft looks at him stony-faced. Sherlock walks closer to him. 'Something big's coming, isn't it?'

' _That's what she said_.' I whisper as John and I make eye contact.

_Cue childish sniggering_.

Rolling his eyes at our buffoonery, Mycroft addresses Sherlock seriously. 'Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this.'

'Oh, will I?' Sherlock challenges, the air wrought with tension.

'Yes, Sherlock.' Mycroft lays down the law. 'You will.' He breaks away from Sherlock's gaze to check his watch. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.'

* * *

FOUR WEEKS LATER

'Marvellous, Sherlock!' John claps loudly, earning a slightly bashful grin from the violin-playing detective.

'Give us another!' Lestrade calls out, taking a swig from his glass of brandy. Sherlock bows in response, but stows the instrument away. 'Thank you, but I think that last carol has sent Audrey sound asleep.'

I jump to attention at the accusation, sitting up ramrod - straight in the armchair. 'It has _not_! I was just…resting my eyes…' I cross my legs and delicately sip from my wine glass, in an attempt to conduct myself with a more lady-like decorum. Sherlock is no longer listening though, and is trying in vain to remember John's new girlfriend's name when she offers him a mince pie.

'How've you been, Audrey?' Lestrade appears beside me, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

'Oh, you know, just…spiffing!' I respond cheerfully, taking note that I should probably ease up on the white wine intake. 'How're you, Greg? How's the wife?'

'We're back together!' He replies, grinning widely. 'Me and her are gonna be in Dorset for Christmas Day.' I happily pat him on the knee, nodding for him to continue. 'Yeah, it's all sorted.'

'Mm no, she's sleeping with a P.E teacher.' Sherlock casually intones from behind his computer screen.

Lestrade's smile becomes uncomfortably forced. I take his hand in mine and give it a squeeze. 'Don't listen to him Greg, he's the last person you'd expect to understand relationships.' He smiles grimly, though his eyes soften at the gesture.

'I know this may seem irrelevant to you, what with Sherlock being your flatmate but, if you ever need any help with anything, _never_ hesitate to ask me Audrey, yeah?' His expression becomes slightly worried, and he lowers his voice. 'Sherlock has a lot of enemies out there; _very_ dangerous people. People that will target those he cares about.' He glances up at Sherlock, frowning. 'I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you.'

Maybe it's the current shitty Moriarty situation I happen to be in right now, or maybe it's just the effects of the alcohol but, I begin to feel myself to tear up. 'Thank you, Greg.' I whisper softly, tightening my grip on his hand before letting go.

Unfortunately, the incredibly sweet and heart-felt moment is ruined by a very audible, 'Oh, dear _Lord'_ from Sherlock as Molly Hooper walks in the door, arms laden with bags of presents.

'Hello everyone! Having a Christmas drinkies, then?' She blushes shyly as John steps forward to take her coat, and turns an even deeper shade when he gawps in appreciation at her slinky black dress. Lestrade seems particularly taken with Molly's fine ass, and rushes to the kitchen to fetch her a drink.

' _Go forth, my son_.' I whisper after him. ' _Go get tha' booty_.'

Sherlock, sensing my growing inebriation, materialises beside me and snatches the wine glass from my hand, replacing it with a bottle of water. 'Please hydrate yourself Audrey, I shudder to think what you're already hyper charisma, heightened with alcohol, could achieve.'

Scowling, I bring the water bottle to my lips and grumble, '...Bet I could hold more drinks than you...'

This Sherlock grins at, quirking an eyebrow. 'Fine, you're on. If I win, you have to help me with the Adler case.'

I stare up at him, confused. 'Is that not what I've been doing these past few weeks?'

Sherlock shakes his head, laughing to himself. 'Oh no. No, no this is a different kind of help.'

I huff loudly, annoyed now. 'Well what's that supposed to mean?'

Sherlock looks around, checking for eavesdroppers, and leans in close, uttering one word: ' _Lesbians._ '

I gawk at his deadly serious face, scrunching my nose in concentration.

'…Nah son. I've literally no idea what you're harping on about.'

Sherlock beckons me to follow him into the kitchen. There, he opens up a folder titled, _The Woman_ , and proceeds to flick through pages upon pages of his own writing. 'I had to write everything down when John hid my laptop after I broke his.' He explains matter-of-factly. 'I've come to the conclusion that she –' He begins but is interrupted by a loud, ' _Oh ho ho!_ ' from John. Sherlock whips around to scream something bitchy, but stops dead when he follows John's pointed finger.

'Ah.' He states simply.

I look up above my head to witness the spectacle myself, only to be thoroughly disappointed by the small bunch of green leaves with white berr –

Oh shit.

_Mistletoe._

'Well go on then.' John encourages smugly. 'Get to it.' I gulp and glance around the room, each face plastered with a smarmy smile.

Except Molly Hooper, who looks quite pale.

I turn back to face Sherlock, suddenly becoming very conscious of the little space in between us.

' _Kiss, kiss, kiss_.' The chanting begins quietly at first.

'I don't – I – What - ' I splutter, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

'Kiss, kiss, kiss.' The incessant mob grows louder.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, gesturing with his hands for them to shut up. 'Yes, yes _alright_. Thank you, we get it.'

'KISS, KISS, KISS.' They're shouting now. Sherlock sighs dramatically and swoops down to place a kiss on my right cheek. 'There.' He addresses the audience while I try to slow my heartbeat. 'Are we happy now?'

Silence.

And then Lestrade: ' _Give her a proper snog!_ '

'SNOG HER! SNOG HER! SNOG HER-'

' _Oh alright_!' Sherlock shouts back at them. Grabbing my waist he pulls me to closer him and kisses me on the mouth this time. His lips soften against mine after a few seconds, and he reaches up to gently cup my face with his free hand.

And then it's over.

He breaks away from me and clears his throat. 'Does that suffice?'

John, Lestrade, Jeannette and Molly gape open-mouthed at us. The uncomfortable silence stretches until Irene Adler gives one of her award-winning porno-sighs.

Then everyone turns to me, a new level of shock registering on each face.

' _Well don't look at me!_ ' I snap at them, incredibly flustered. Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone in record time. 'No, don't worry it was me.' He explains nonchalantly, eyes fixed to the screen.

'My God, _really_!?' Lestrade asks, flabbergasted.

'My _phone._ ' Sherlock clarifies sourly. He strides to the mantelpiece and picks up a small red box. Pocketing it, he makes his way towards the bedroom, smiling lightly at me when our eyes meet.

John sidles up to me once he hears the door shut. 'Well that was –' I hold up one finger, silencing him.

Keeping my eyes firmly shut, I whisper to him, ' _Never_ let me forget this moment, John.'


	16. You've Lost Your Muchiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely comments! It makes me so happy to see that people are enjoying my story. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Christmas was a dismal affair. After Sherlock had raced from the flat (at nearly 2 am mind you) to identify Ms Adler's corpse, I had a distinct feeling things would go downhill from there on. Or at least, until he finds out the truth about Irene.

But God only knows when that might be.

It put a _slight_ dampener on the whole situation, to say the least.

Oh what situation, you ask? Just the small trivial matter of SHERLOCK WILLINGLY PRESSING HIS LIPS AGAINST MINE FOR OVER 5 SECONDS. AND WITH FERVOUR, MIGHT I ADD. PLENTY OF FERVOUR.

So when His Lordship arrived home a couple of hours later with a face like a slapped arse, whatever flickering spark of hope I had of us possibly _discussing_ the details of the previous few hours fizzled back down to the bottom of my heart and faded away.

I couldn't help feeling quite alone, despite having just shooed out a very cuddly and _very_ drunk Greg and Molly, who insisted on professing their love for me at the top of their lungs. But _alone_ was a feeling I was all too familiar with – it and its side effects. After Camille died, it was like a whole chunk of my being had been ripped out and smashed into a million pieces. She was my twin; my other half. We came into this world together, and we should have left it side by side.

' _No_.' I say aloud. 'Snivelling over the past isn't going to do you any good, Audrey.' I quickly dismiss the growing feeling of nausea that usually accompanied the sadness. Pressing a green and red striped handkerchief to my eyes and dabbing the tears away, I rise from the armchair and make my way to kitchen, pausing when my phone _dings_ a text alert. I reluctantly pull the phone out from my pocket, already knowing who the sender is before I even glance at the screen.

_Merry Christmas, Audrey Darling._

_-M_

_Ps. Check the post-box._

Now, I take pride in my stubbornness, don't get me wrong. But curiosity always gets the better of me, and I'm racing down the stairs before you can say _Vivienne Westwood_. Reaching inside the square, wooden box, I pull out a brown-paper covered parcel. It's bound together with a dark red ribbon, and "Audrey" is written on the top right-hand corner in swirling cursive. Sitting down on the bottom step, I gently pull on the ribbon and fold the paper down at each side, revealing its contents. Inside are two gifts. The first is a beautiful bronze pocket watch, the kind that tells the time and the date. The front is decorated with intricate silver filigree, joining to form a lock-shape in the centre. I turn the watch around in my hand and stroke the handiwork with one finger, admiring it.

'Too bad it's broken.' I sigh to myself. And quite broken, at that. There is no gently ticking sound to indicate that time is passing, and the hands of the clock have stopped at 5.00pm, on the seventh of March; two months from now.

Tucking the cold, round object into my pocket, I move onto the second gift, which is a cornflower-blue, hard-back copy of Lewis Carroll's " _Alice in Wonderland"._ Opening the cover, I find a small note written at the top in the same neat handwriting.

" _Little Alice fell_

_d_

_o_

_w_

_n_

_the hOle,_

_bumped her head_

_and bruised her soul."_

It's a quote from the book, nothing more, though I can't help but feel threatened by it. Moriarty's ever-present warning lingers at the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the dangerous game I've been forced to play. Suddenly overcome with a debilitating sense of despair, I place my head in my hands and rest them against my knees, one thought echoing inside my head again, and again.

_I want to go home. I just want to go home._

* * *

' _What_ has gotten into you two?' John snaps the newspaper down and peers over the top of it. Sherlock is staring out the window while I cradle Catsby, the same sullen expression plastered across both of our faces. It has been three weeks since Sherlock learned of Irene's death (and when I say _death_ …), and ever since he has been practically _sleeping_ with his violin. Dreaming up more funeral marches, no doubt. And in that time he has become incredibly distant towards John and myself - almost depressed.

You'd think he was in love with her. It's the only explanation to justify his cold behaviour.

'Nothing.' We both mumble at the same time. Sherlock abruptly stands from the kitchen table and strides towards the door. 'I'm going for a walk.' He calls back to us before slamming the door shut. Sighing, John folds the newspaper and turns towards me. 'You know, he hasn't been this moody since that time you changed his ringtone to _Baby Got Back_.' I crack a smile at this, giggling a bit. 'It went off in the middle of Scotland Yard and everything.' John joins in, chuckling and shaking his head.

His expression turns serious again, once he stops laughing. 'Audrey…Is everything okay?' He asks, his face creasing slightly with worry. 'You've not been yourself these past few weeks either.' I feel my face fall at this – I hate confrontation.

'…I dunno.' I shrug my shoulders, unsure of what to say next. I don't think he'd react well to: _'Oh yeah, everything's fine! Except for the fact that Moriarty is probably going to feed me to Hannibal Lecter if I don't do what he says but, apart from that…'_

John softly pats my hand, signalling me to continue. I choose one of the many concerns threatening to spill out of my mouth in a verbal avalanche of hysteria.

'I've been thinking about Dad a lot, recently, and how worried he must be.' I frown and look up at John. 'I mean, I haven't even stopped to think about what my disappearance may have done to him. What if there's a whole police force out there, searching day and night for me? What if I've made the _national news_?' My voice rises a few octaves at this, and I begin to panic. 'I'm a _terrible_ human being, John! All this time I've been _cavorting_ around London city with a fictional detective – an _ungrateful_ fictional detective – when I should have been looking for a way back home!' Feeling my chin start to wobble, I quickly stand from the table and turn away from John. I stay like that for a few seconds, until I feel his hand on my elbow, tugging me around to face him. He says nothing, only pulling me close in a soft embrace, patting the back of my head.

And then I just lose it.

The tighter John's hug gets, the louder my sobs become.

'If you want to cry, you just go ahead and cry.' John mumbles, tucking my head to rest under his chin. 'I know how it feels to be alone, Audrey. It's the worst bloody feeling in the world.'

Once my sobs become muted hiccups, I step back and wipe the few remaining tears from my eyes. Looking back to John, I begin to say something meaningful, but stop and grimace at his chest instead. ' _Gross,_ I got boogers all over your sweater-vest.' John chuckles and squeezes the end of my chin affectionately. 'There's the Audrey I know.'

We just stand there and smile goofily for a moment, until John checks his watch and –

' _Fucking hell!_ I was supposed to be at the clinic forty minutes ago!' He dashes around the flat, grabbing his medical paraphernalia at lightning speed. I, on the other hand, watch from the kitchen table whilst leisurely sipping from a cup of tea.

'Take a nice break today, Aud.' He presses a kiss to the top of my head before sprinting from the apartment at a speed I would have thought impossible judging by the length of his legs. Taking my cup of tea to the sitting room, I throw on Sherlock's blue silk dressing gown and decide to take a nap on the sofa.

* * *

 _BANG_. The door flies open, hitting the wall loudly. I shoot up into a sitting position, my head still fuzzy with sleep.

'Well, well, well.' A voice sneers from the right. I twist around and find myself face to face with the same blonde American who broke into Irene Adler's house. 'If it isn't the pretty little missy who got away.' He motions to the two burly henchmen standing behind him. 'Grab her.'

They're beside me in a flash, yanking me up from the sofa and twisting my hands behind my back. The blonde man walks calmly towards me, ignoring my attempts to struggle free. 'Where is the phone?' I stare up at him, dazed and slightly out of breath. 'I've no idea!' I gasp.

He grins wickedly, and shakes his head. 'Well unfortunately for you, Miss … ?'

'...Dubois.' I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

'Yes well, unfortunately for you, _Miss Dubois_ , I am in no mood to play Mr Nice Guy. One way or another I am leaving this room with that phone, and _believe me_ when I say I am a man of my word.' He takes a step closer, until the tops of our feet are touching. 'Now, I'm going to ask you again; _where is the phone_?'

I glance desperately out the window, willing Sherlock to appear. ' _I told you, I don't know I -_ 'The man suddenly lunges towards me, grabbing me tightly around the neck. ' _Do not lie to me!_ ' I pull my shoulders foward, desperately trying to free myself. He slowly loosens his hold, enough for me to speak. ' _I...I'm telling the...truth.._ ' I choke, eyes brimming with tears.

He releases me and sighs, rubbing his jaw. 'Is the flat above still vacant?' He asks one of his sidekicks, who nods once. 'Bring her upstairs.'

I stand frozen to the spot with panic. 'Wh – why do you need to take me up there?' The men ignore me; even when my voice rises to a shout. One of them just clamps a hand firmly over my mouth, and continues dragging me up the stairs. I claw at the wallpaper in an attempt to slow them down, digging deep furrows into the floral pattern until my fingertips bleed. But to no avail. They haul me through the door of 221C as the blonde man nosily drags a chair into the middle of the room.

'Tie her to it.' He orders one particularly simple looking henchman. He complies at once, roughly pushing me down and binding my hands together with rope. I keep my eyes trained to the floorboards, trying to control my erratic heartbeat.

'So…' The blonde man circles me. 'We can do this two ways. One – You be a good girl and give us the phone.' He comes to a halt in front of me and bends down until we're at eye level. 'Or two – Which will only prove to be _very_ painful for you…' He places both hands on my legs, just above the kneecap. '…But _very_ satisfactory for us.' His hands continue to travel up my thigh, slowly. Panic-stricken, I begin to squirm in protest. _'No_ – _please stop_ …'

' _Get your hands off her_.'

The sudden low and menacing voice threatens from the doorway, and I almost pass out in relief when Sherlock steps across the threshold. The blonde-haired man holds up both arms in mock surrender, while the two henchmen click their pistols, ready and aimed at Sherlock.

'I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes.'

'Then why don't you ask for it?' Sherlock walks closer, and holds his right hand out towards mine. I grasp onto it tightly as he gently turns back the sleeve of the dressing gown and examines the dark purple marks on my wrist.

'I've been asking this one.' The blonde man nods his head towards me. 'She doesn't seem to know anything.'

Sherlock ignores him, instead making a quite _tutting_ noise and blowing softly on my ripped fingertips.

'But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr Holmes?' The man continues, grinning as he produces a pistol of his own.

Sherlock raises his head and looks directly at him, eyes dark with fury. But he isn't deducing the man - In very rapid succession he is picking out target points on his body: _Carotid artery, skull, eyes_. His gaze drops to the man's arm and chest: _Artery, lungs, ribs_. He raises his eyes to the American again. 'I believe I do.'

' _Sherlock…_ ' I whimper, staring at the two loaded guns pointed directly at his head.

' _Shh, shh_.' He strokes my cheek lightly with the back of his hand. 'It's okay.' He turns to the blonde man and points at the gunmen. 'First, get rid of your boys. I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room.'

The American hesitates for a moment, then glances at his partners. 'You two, go to the car.' Grawp 1 and Grawp 2 blink stupidly for a second before noisily leaving the room.

'Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me.'

The blonde man scoffs at this. 'So you can point a gun at me?'

Sherlock takes a step back and spreads both arms out at each side. 'I'm unarmed.'

'Mind if I check?'

Sherlock smiles sarcastically. 'Oh _, I insist_.'

The American walks over to Sherlock and flicks his coat open, finding nothing. Walking around behind him, the man starts patting for any weapon hidden behind his back. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, and faster than humanly possible he whips out an air freshener, twists around and sprays the contents directly into the American's eyes. As he shouts in agony, Sherlock rears back and then savagely head-butts him in the face. The man falls back over the coffee table, unconscious.

'Moron.' Sherlock triumphantly flips the can into the air and slams it onto the table beside him. Hurrying back towards me, he bends down and starts loosening the rope wrapped tightly around my hands.

' _Well cover me in butter and dip me in a saucepan_.' I sigh breathlessly. (It's more of a swoon, really.)

'Come again?' he murmers. I don't reply, replaying Sherlock's manly head-butt-of-sex over and over in my head.

'Now, let's have a look at these.' He carefully takes my fingers and rests them on the tips of his own. 'We'll need to disinfect them first, then bandage them up. John should have all the equipment required.' He looks at me and begins to smile. 'I know it may be difficult for you to hear this, Audrey...but you are _not_ a cat.' I throw him a withering look, but laugh all the same. 'Unfortunately, your claws just aren't strong enough.' Rubbing his thumbs softly against my knuckles, he starts to smirk. 'And it should be illegal to have hands this small – they are ridiculously impractical.'

_Ah, there's the charming Sherlock we all know and love._

A low groaning noise brings our attention to the semi-conscious American man lying on the floor. Sherlock rises to his feet and makes his way over to him. Stooping down, he grabs the man underneath his arms and hauls him onto a chair similar to mine. Using the rope that bound my hands together, he secures the man's arms. Reaching into his coat pocket, Sherlock pulls out a roll of grey-coloured duct tape and proceeds to wrap the sticky band around the man's face, covering his mouth.

'Only _you_ would have emergency duct-tape.' I mumble. Sherlock winks in response. I try not to melt into a pile of goo.

As the man begins to regain consciousness, I nervously shift in my seat, pulling the hem of my nightdress down. Sherlock notices this, his eyes widening as he puts two and two together.

' _Oh no_ - _no-no,_ he didn't do anything like _that_ he just…' I trail off, too embarrassed to continue. Relief floods Sherlock's face, which is swiftly followed by anger. In one fluid movement, he draws back his fist and punches the American straight in the face with a sickening _crunch_. Shaking his hand out, Sherlock looks rather pleased as blood begins to stream from the man's (now crooked) nose.

'Sorry, but he was asking for it.' Sherlock explains apologetically, but I seem to have zoned out, too in awe of this God-like man standing before me.

We both jump slightly when the door is flung open, revealing a panic-stricken John. In his hand he is clutching a scrunched up piece of paper. 'Ah, excellent, you got my note.' Sherlock points to the scrap of paper, looking rather pleased with himself.

' _CRIME IN PROGRESS. PLEASE DISTURB_.' John reads the note aloud. 'Have you called the police?'

'Just about to.' Sherlock replies calmly, pressing his phone against his ear. John looks from the bleeding, bound – up man to Sherlock and then to me, apprehension dawning.

' _Audrey,_ _what happened_?' He rushes towards me in full mother hen mode. 'Did they hurt you? Where did these bruises come fro – _your fingers! Look at them!_ ' He places a hand at either side of my face, looking me straight in the eye. 'Audrey, did they touch you in any way?' I wince slightly at this, feeling my face heat up. ' _No_ , John, they didn't! I swear.' John's face relaxes a fraction, before he releases my head and re-examines my injuries. He turns to face Sherlock, who has his eyes fixed to the American. 'So are you gonna tell me what's going on?'

'I expect so.' Sherlock replies, reaching inside his coat pocket for his phone. 'Take Audrey upstairs and tend to her. I'll be up shortly.'

He gets through to Scotland Yard as John wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me from the room.

'Lestrade. We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance.' He walks across to the table and lays the pistol down on it. 'Oh, no-no-no, we're fine. No, it's the, uh, it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured.'

I look nervously from Sherlock to the American.

'Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung.' Sherlock continues conversationally. 'How did it happen? He glances over his shoulder at the blonde man, his eyes glinting dangerously.

'He fell out a window.'

* * *

'Exactly _how_ many times did he fall out the window, Sherlock?' Lestrade asks Sherlock sceptically. We're all sitting around the kitchen table, updating Lestrade on the situation.

'It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector.' He shrugs innocently. 'I lost count.' Lestrade sighs loudly, not bothering to reply. He reaches over and squeezes one of my now bandaged hands. 'You take care of yourself, Audrey.' He glares at Sherlock accusingly. 'And _you_ take care of her as well.' Sherlock, to my utter astonishment, nods ashamedly. 'I know, I know. I take full responsibility.' Lestrade _hmphs_ in reply before grabbing his scarf and heading out the door.

The three of us sit in silence for a moment, sipping our tea. 'All this for a _bloody_ camera phone.' John sighs exasperatedly. 'Where is it, anyway?'

'Yes, actually, _where_ is it?' I join in. Sherlock smirks and motions for me to stand up. I stare at him, confused, but comply nonetheless. He steps forward until he's only a few inches away from me, and reaches down into the pocket of his dressing gown which I am currently _still_ _wearing_. My stomach flutters – yes _flutters_ – when I feel his fingers brush against my side through the thin layer of silk. Pulling his hand back out from the pocket, he grins triumphantly as he waves the phone in front of us. John chuckles gently, shaking his head.

'Safest place I know.'

* * *


	17. Gondor Calls For Aid

 

Hannibal Lecter is many things – an esteemed psychotherapist, a remarkable chef, a connoisseur of all things tastefully stylish and stylishly tasteful.

A follower, however, he is not.

It is this detail which leads him to the door of 221b at a quarter past 5 on a chilly Thursday evening, seeking the company of one Miss Audrey Dubois, who happens to be alone at this point in time. (John starts his shift at 4 pm on Thursdays, giving Sherlock the excuse to tag along and coax the all too trusting Molly Hooper into doing his bidding.)

Yes, Dr Lecter has done his research. He's not an amateur.

*Cue pointed Parks and Rec-esque look into camera*

He has had quite enough of Moriarty's tiresome scheming and the Baker Street boys' antics, thank you very much. The only person worth his time is in this godforsaken world is the little sorceress (??? Further research is possibly required) who summoned him here.

The dapper Dr Lecter reaches out and grabs the circular brass knocker, tapping it firmly against the door three times. There is an almost instantaneous response to his knocking, he notices, as he hears the unmistakable tread of a young rhinoceros lumbering down the stairs.

" _Sherlock, if you haven't come back with my double cheeseburger, medium fries and diet coke, then don't bother coming back at a_ –' The door is flung open by a small framed girl with bandages wrapped tightly around each of her ten fingers.

' _Bonsoir,_ Mademoiselle Dubois.' Hannibal Lecter greets her politely.

The now white-faced girl utters an almost inaudible ' _Shit_ ', before turning on her heels and racing back up the stairs. Hannibal sighs, straightens his suit jacket and steps over the threshold.

* * *

We've been sitting in silence for nearly 15 minutes now.

That is, Hannibal Lecter has literally been sitting and _staring_ at me for nearly 15 minutes.

I feel like that goat in Jurassic Park, moments before he's lowered into the Tyrannosaurus' cage and violently gobbled up.

Is this really how I am to go? Chopped up, sautéed and accompanied by _dauphinoise potatoes_ and a red wine _jus_? I clear my throat, and ready myself to say something. 'Look, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and…' I falter and internally bang my head against the coffee table, cursing myself for such poor choice of words.

Limb? Really? _A limb?_

'Audrey -' Hannibal finally speaks up. 'May I call you Audrey?' I nod in response. 'I am not here to hurt you.' I slump back against the chair, slowly letting out the breath I'd been holding in. 'Oh thank God, I was just about to tell you about this one time where I ate an actual entire Macaroni and cheese pizza and how unhealthy my bo -' He raises his hand to silence me, and I shrink back further into the armchair.

Hannibal pauses for a moment before he continues explaining himself. 'I am here to ask for your help.'

I straighten up and frown, taken aback by his request. 'Help you?' I echo him. 'How and why?'

Hannibal rises from the armchair opposite mine and walks to the window. Clasping his hands behind his back he turns to face me. 'I'll admit, I was curious at first - What is this world and how have I come to be in it? I have always been a great believer in finding the possible in the impossible; No task is too small once you set your mind to it etcetera, etcetera.' He waves his hand nonchalantly as he says these words. 'I don't know what Mr Moriarty thought he would gain in my summoning – An ally, perhaps?' Lines begin to mar his smooth forehead, and he sinks back down into the armchair. 'We couldn't be more different, we –'

'Both take innocent lives.' I cut across him sharply. His eyes widen at my harsh tone, but he remains silent. 'Look, Dr Lecter,' I continue tiredly. 'I've had it up to here with surprise visits from potential psychopaths – I mean, just last week I was almost beaten to a pulp by CIA assassins with _questionably dishonourable_ intentions.' I wave my gauze-wrapped hands in front of my face. 'I'm living in constant fear of Moriarty casually popping round for a cup of tea to causally _pop_ my head off with an L96a1, all the while desperately trying to find my way back home to reassure my poor Father that I have not in fact been kidnapped _and brutally murdered!_ ' Realising that my voice has risen quite a few octaves, I pause to collect myself and resume breathing at a more sane level.

Hannibal remains quite, studying my face with a look close to…Sympathy? Or perhaps understanding?

'It appears we are both lost.' He says quietly.

I glance up at him, and feel regret slowly creeping its way into my heart.

_Don't say it._

'Hannibal I -' Closing my eyes for a fraction of a second, I swiftly make my mind up.

_Don't you dare._

'I can help you. Or at least, I'll try my best.' Hannibal stares at me with a look I can only guess as _his_ version of gratitude. 'Thank you, Audrey.'

_Great. Just, spiffing. And how exactly are we going to steal the book from Moriarty Mansion, hmm? Do a Matilda on it?_

As if reading my thoughts, Hannibal stands up and heads for the doorway. 'Leave the book to me. I just need you to be at Victoria Park at 8 pm tonight, sharp. I'll meet you by the pavilion.'

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. 'Why the park?'

'Because it will be quiet at that time and we won't run the risk of being seen.' He nods briskly, 'Until then', and steps quietly from the room.

I sit in contemplation for a minute or two. Strangely, the urge to giggle suddenly washes over me and before I know it I'm doubling over with tears streaming down my face.

'Oh Catsby,' I gaze at the cat, whose ears are now flattened against his head in alarm as a result of my guffawing, and scoop him up into my arms. 'I am so screwed.'

* * *

'Audrey!' John hollers up the stairs, kicking the door shut behind him, and laden with shopping bags. 'I've got that tea you were looking for…eh Jerry's?' He digs around in one of the bags and pulls out a red box. '...Oh no, sorry, I mean Barry's.' Preoccupied with returning the box of tea to its temporary home in the plastic bag, he walks straight into the wall of lean muscle that is Sherlock's back.

'Shut up, John.' The taller man says without a second glance backwards.

' _Bloody oww!_ ' John angrily glares at Sherlock's curly mop of hair while rubbing his nose. 'What is wrong with yo – Sherlock?' He pauses abruptly, staring at his companion, who has his head lowered to the wooden bannister. 'Sherlock… _Are you sniffing the bannister?_ '

Ignoring his short and fuming friend, Sherlock hurriedly climbs the stairs two steps at a time. 'We have a client.' He calls back as reaches the top of the stairs, taking another deep sniff. He turns and looks into the kitchen, striding across to the window and checks it, realising that it is open. Turning and sniffing again, he starts to walk slowly towards his bedroom just as the sound of feet begin trotting up the stairs. Reaching his room, he cautiously pushes the door open and takes a step inside. Seconds later, John pokes his head around the corner, jaw dropping at what he sees.

' _What the F?_ '

* * *

Teeth chattering, I check my watch. The clock face reads 7.56pm. I took the precaution of arriving 10 minutes earlier, guessing that Hannibal Lecter is not a man you'd want to keep waiting. I nervously glance around the dimly lit park, silently cursing Hannibal for his creepy choice in rendezvous. Hopefully, John or Sherlock (most likely John) will have read the note I had left on the fridge explaining my whereabouts. In fact, they're probably on their way over here right no -

'Evening, Audrey.'

' _Holy Lord!'_ I exclaim loudly and jump around, finding myself face to face with Hannibal Lecter, a small smile playing on his lips. 'Okay, you have like, _the lightest_ tread I have ever heard in my life.'

He smirks at me. 'Yes, I find it comes in handy.' The street lamp nearby is reflected in his eyes, giving them a twinkly, bordering-on-psychotic appearance. 'Especially in my area of expertise.'

' _I'll say._ ' I whisper under my breath. Clearing my head, I extend my hand towards him. 'You got the book?'

He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the small, black object. Raising his eyebrows at my unintentionally loud gasp, he questions, 'Did you doubt me?'

Grabbing the book and flipping to the marked page, I shake my head absentmindedly. 'Not even for a second.' Locating the paragraph, I take a deep breath and look into Hannibal's eyes. 'You ready?'

He nods once. 'I am.' As I open my mouth to begin reciting, he gently places his hand on mine. I look up, startled by the intensity of his gaze. 'I hope you find your way back Audrey. Truly.' Swallowing loudly, I just smile and shrug my shoulder. He looks like he wants to say something else, but decides otherwise. Releasing my hand, he takes a step back and breathes deeply. 'Alright. You can begin now.'

" _He's a monster. I think of him as one of those pitiful things that are born in hospitals from time to time."_ I glance up, silently apologising for the harsh choice of words _._ He shakes his head slightly, motioning for me to carry on.

" _They feed it, and keep it warm, but they don't put it on the machines and it dies."_

I glance up at him once more, noticing that his appearance is beginning to distort and fade, like smoke.

" _Lecter is the same way in his head, but he looks normal and nobody could tell."_

Sighing quietly, I close the book and watch Hannibal Lecter become more and more transparent. 'For the record…'I begin softly. 'I've always thought you were an okay guy.' The nearly invisible face of Dr Lecter smiles one last time, before it is swallowed up by the darkness.

* * *

'So who's after you?' Sherlock questions the now showered Irene Adler.

'People who want to kill me.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'And who's that?'

'Killers.' Irene replies stubbornly.

'It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific.' John intones, earning an annoyed glare from Sherlock. 'So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them.' He concludes.

Irene smirks. 'I knew you'd keep my secret.' Her expression turning serious, she looks at both men. 'So where's my phone?'

'Well it's not here.' John scoffs. 'We're not stupid.'

'Then what have you done with it?' Anger flashes across her blue eyes. 'If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you.'

'And if they've been watching me, they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.' Sherlock smirks at Irene's crestfallen appearance.

'I need it.' She narrows her eyes before rising from the armchair and walks towards the windows, staring out. 'There was a man – an MOD official. I knew what he liked.' She takes a different phone out from her dressing gown pocket. Sherlock looks taken aback, but remains quiet. Irene types in the passcode and calls up a photo. 'One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it.' She hands the phone to Sherlock. 'He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen – can you understand it?'

Sherlock sits down on the other side of the table to join John and narrows his eyes at the photograph.

'Yes.' He replies simply.

'A code, obviously.' Irene places her hands on the table opposite the men, drumming her fingernails on the mahogany. 'I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it – though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn't figure it out.'

Sherlock leans forward, concentrating on the screen.

'What can you do, Mr Holmes?' Irene circles the table until she is standing behind him. Leaning over his shoulder, she purrs into his ear. 'Go on. Impress a girl.'

It takes a sum total of 8 seconds for Sherlock to deduce the code. 'There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world.' He looks at John's blank face in front of him, then glances round at Irene who hasn't even fully straightened up yet.

'In true Audrey Dubois fashion; _dayum son_.' John remarks in astonishment.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the pavilion, I had decided to mull a few things over before returning to Baker Street. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I actually felt hopeful.

_It's possible, Aud. You know it's possible to be read back into your own world now._

Taking a deep breath I stare up into the sparkling night sky. 'You can do this, Audrey. You can go home.' I say aloud determinedly.

My cheerful mood is interrupted, however, by the unmistakable sound of slow clapping, echoing from tree to tree. I whirl around, startled by the sudden materialization of a familiar, tall, blonde-haired man.

Sebastian Moran.

'And so the little bird opens her wings, and flies away.' He whispers sarcastically and flutters his fingertips, leaning against a nearby tree.

I feel the colour drain from my face, and my jaw drop open. Realising I resemble a dead codfish, I snap it shut. 'How – How long have you been standing there for?' I whisper, my voice barely audible.

'Long enough.' He replies smugly.

I frown at this, and roll my eyes. 'Okay, can I just let you in on a little secret? When somebody asks you "How long have you been standing there for", contrary to popular belief you are not _obliged_ to reply with "Long enough". It is the most clichéd, over-done response in literary history and you know, I'm just so _sick_ of it. Be original for crying out loud!'

It's Moran's turn to gape at me like a codfish, and in those few seconds of confusion, I see and opportunity and I take it.

i.e. I grab my bag and bolt from the pavilion as fast as my athletically-challenged legs can carry me.

' _Fuck_.' I hear Moran shout before he takes off after me.

Skinny, sharp branches scratch against my face, no doubt drawing blood. ' _Don't trip. Please don't trip._ ' I chant to myself. Zig-zagging in between trees, I race for the entrance gate.

Or should I say clump of trees because that is exactly where I'm headed. Urging myself to remain calm, I duck behind a bush and gather my thoughts.

_Just retrace your steps, Aud. Does anything look familiar?_

Peeping my head over a fraction of the hedge, I desperately search the area for a way out, praying for divine inspiration, and all the while listening for Moran's footsteps.

Or absence thereof.

Rising slightly further, I twist my head around to check from the side I just came from.

Huh.

* * *

'Sherlock!' John rouses the detective from his reverie. 'Did you hear me?'

'Hmm?' Sherlock mumbles.

John frowns at him. 'I said I'm worried about Audrey.' Sherlock sits up straighter. 'What do you mean worried? Where is she?' John shows him a scrap of paper with Audrey's neat handwriting printed on it. 'She said she'd be back by half eight, it's almost half nine now.'

'Well did you ring her phone?' Sherlock asks, rising from the armchair. 'She left it here.' John sighs, holding out his other hand to reveal Audrey's mobile. Sherlock stares at the phone for a second before rushing from the room to grab his coat and scarf. 'I'm going to go look for her. Stay here and keep an eye on Ms Adler.' He gestures to Irene, who had been watching the two with mild interest throughout their conversation.

'No, no I'll go.' John grabs his parka. 'I don't want to be responsible if this one gets away.' He tilts his head in Irene's direction. Sherlock eyes John dubiously. 'Seriously, I've got this.' John insists, wrapping a scarf around his neck. Sherlock reluctantly shrugs his coat off and takes his place back in the sitting room. 'You're to call me at once when you find her.' He instructs John, who nods before shutting the door behind him.

'Ah, Audrey. I had almost forgotten about her.' Irene speaks up. 'How is your little…?' She trails off waiting for Sherlock to finish the sentence. 'Ahh.' She nods her head when he doesn't answer. 'So we're not at that stage yet.'

'I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.' Sherlock mumbles, resting his head against the back of the armchair. Irene laughs softly. 'Oh come now, Sherlock. I'm not blind. I could practically _taste_ the sexual tension that day you all came to visit me in Belgravia.' Sherlock continues to ignore her, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple. 'Such a sweet little thing, isn't she?' Irene continues to taunt him. 'Such young, soft skin.' She rises from her own chair and makes her way towards him. 'So smooth and unblemished, like a ripe peach.' Kneeling down in front of Sherlock, she leans in close. 'Better pluck her before someone else gets to her first.'

' _Enough_.' Sherlock spits. Irene smiles, seemingly satisfied with his reaction.

The front door bangs open, causing both heads to turn sharply.

'Mr Holmes?' A male voice calls from the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'I recognise that voice.' Standing up to straighten his suit jacket, Sherlock steps over Irene's folded legs and makes his way towards the door. He sighs as one of Mycroft's men meets him at the doorway.

'Have you come to take me away _again_?'

'Yes, Mr Holmes.' The man replies, handing him his coat and scarf.

* * *

Tentatively, I tiptoe out from my hiding place. Finding myself smack-bang in the middle of a clearing with various paths leading off of it, I make a very wise and astute decision on which route to take:

' _Eenie, meenie, minie, mo, catch a_ – _Waahh!_ '

I shriek as I feel a pair of strong hands clamp down on my shoulders. ' _Catch a birdy by the toe._ ' Moran hisses into my ear and wraps one of his hands around my mouth, muffling my scream. With the other hand, he grabs my flailing arms and pins them roughly against my back. I wince as a sharp jolt of pain courses through my left shoulder - a not-so-nice souvenir the Golem left to me after he broke it. 'You're only going to make it harder on yourself if you continue to struggle.' Moran advises me through gritted teeth, letting out a loud grunt of pain as my foot connects with his kneecap. ' _Stop wriggling you stupid little worm!_ Oh for the love of -' He cuts himself off and I feel his hold loosen. Readying myself to scarper, I wrench one arm from his. Triumphantly waving my free limb, I make to detach the other but Moran spins me around to face him. Smirking in satisfaction at the look of confusion that crosses my face, he bends down and wraps his arms securely underneath my bottom, throwing me over his shoulder.

'PUT ME DOWN!' I holler, thumping his back with my fists. 'PUT ME DOWN YOU BIG…YOU BIG…SHREK!'

' _Shut up._ ' He spits, attempting to keep his own voice down. 'Or someone'll hear you.'

' _That's the general idea_.' I hiss back at him. Breathing deeply through my nose I try to recollect my thoughts. _He's not as bad as Moriarty, maybe I can convince him to let me go? It's worth a shot._

'Please, Sebastian.' I whisper, and I feel the man stiffen slightly when I say his name. 'Please. I just want to go home, to my _real_ home.' I add a few sniffs for good measure. 'Can't you just tell Moriarty that Hannibal ran away? Seems pretty plausible, if you ask me.' Sebastian sighs, and shakes his head. 'Then I'm putting _my_ neck on the line. And for what?'

'Because it's the right thing to do.' I say softly. 'Because, deep down, I know you're a good man.' He remains silent for a moment.

'I'm sorry little bird, but I've got to look out for myself.' His hold tightens around my legs, and my head slumps forward in defeat. Seconds later, his phone starts to ring.

'Shit.' He curses under his breath, and attempts to hold me with one arm while the other digs around in his pocket. I push myself upwards, resting both hands on his shoulder, and wrap my legs around his waist. Shimmying a bit to the left to face him, I smile apologetically.

'What are you _doing_?' He asks, eyes widening in disbelief.

'Look, this is gonna hurt me as much as it hurts you.' I reply and suddenly wack my forehead down onto the bridge of his nose. Howling in pain, his hands fall from my back and I topple to the ground, landing on my bottom in a most unladylike fashion. Without hesitating, I scramble to my feet and sprint off towards the sound of moving cars. ' _Help me!_ ' I shout at the top of my lungs. ' _Somebody, please!_ ' I run until my lungs burn for oxygen. ' _There's a crazy Swedish man with criminal intent on the loose_!' I continue to shout for help but to no avail. Why is it that this night, of _all_ nights, there isn't a soul to be seen in the park. Usually, there would be _at least_ two or three joggers, but tonight? _Nada_.

'Oh come _on_!' I shout hopelessly, bending down to catch my breath. 'GONDOR IS CALLING FOR FECKIN' AID– ' I cut my last screech short, as a particularly well-lit clump of hedges catches my eye. Stumbling forwards, I almost sob in relief when I see the wrought-iron entrance gate. Slamming the bars shut behind me, I turn around to inspect my surroundings.

'Where in the name of all that is Holy am I?' Defeated, I look from left to right, and decide that my best bet is to cross the road.

 _Just get as far away from that damned park as you can,_ I say to myself, as I calmly peg it down the street. … _Hold on a sec, I remember this building._ Coming to a halt in front of a white Georgian house, I gasp in recognition.

' _The Diogenes Club!_ Mycroft might be here!' Taking the steps two at a time, I shamelessly thump my fists the wooden door. My hand is still raised in a knocking motion when Bates, the stuffy butler, opens the door.

' _I beg your pardon, Madam, but I do believe you are lost._ ' He reprimands me in a scandalised voice.

'Bates, please, is Mycroft there?' I ask breathlessly. He nods once, scrunching his nose up. 'Why do you ask?' I push past him and run down the hallway. ' _It's a matter of national importance!_ '

Bursting in through the door of Mycroft's office, I don't even pause to notice he has company. 'Mycroft, please, you've got to help –'

' _Audrey?_ ' Sherlock asks disbelievingly, cutting me off.

I stare at him, finally managing a soft, ' _Oh._ ' He rushes towards me and grabs both of my hands, squeezing them tightly. 'You're shaking, Audrey.' He stares into my eyes. 'What's happened, what's wrong?'

I continue to blink at him like a retarded owl. I glance around the room, eyes widening when my gaze falls on a teary-eyed Irene Adler. 'Why…why is she crying?' I ask weakly.

'Never mind about her, it's you I'm worried about.' Sherlock frowns when I don't answer. 'Audrey? Are you listening to me?'

I turn back to face him bewilderedly. 'Why are you breathing so loud?' I whisper.

Sherlock's frown deepens. 'Audrey, that's your own breathing you're hearing, not mine.' He glances at Mycroft. 'I think she's going into shock – Audrey, I need you to sit down for me.'

Shaking my head to clear the shrill ringing in my ears, my eyelids become heavy, and my head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton wool.

'Sherlock, Sherlock she's going to go any sec-'

Evidently, I never get to hear the rest of Mycroft's sentence.

* * *

' _Audrey?_ Sherlock is that – _Oh Jesus_ what's happened to her?' John rushes down to meet Sherlock at the stairs. 'She's just passed out, but from _what_ I'm not sure.' He glances down at the unconscious girl in his arms. Striding past the living room and into his bedroom, he gently places Audrey on top of the duvet. John hurries towards her, bending down to feel her temperature and monitor her heart rate.

'If Moriarty's done something to her I'll…' He trails off as Sherlock presses his finger to his lips, pointing to Audrey. 'Sush, she's coming around.'

* * *

John and Sherlock had sat silently, listening to my story. And when I had finished telling it, they didn't shout or become angry like I was expecting. In fact, they were the complete opposite. John took my hand in his and told me that my heart was in the right place, but sometimes my head wasn't. He then chuckled and left the room to go make me a cup of tea, leaving Sherlock and I on our own.

'Say something Sherlock, please.' I implored him, and rested my hand on top of his. 'Don't be angry.' I whispered.

He softly brushed his thumb along the edge of my palm. 'I'm not angry with you.' He caught my gaze and held it. 'I wish you would have told me, though.'

I began to smirk. 'Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.' His eyes softened at this, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

* * *

I hear the door crack open, throwing a sliver of light across the floorboards. Just as the footsteps turn to walk away, I sit up, blinking my eyes open. 'No, it's okay, Sherlock. You can come in.' I watch the silent figure cross to the other side of the room, and feel the bed sink as he sits down on the edge.

'What time is it?' I ask sleepily.

'Almost 4 am.' Sherlock replies quietly, stifling a yawn. I grab the pillow behind me and shuffle to the side of the bed, swinging my legs over the edge. 'You get some sleep, I'll go to the living room.'

'What? No, no.' He pats my side of the mattress. 'Stay here, I only need a quick power nap.' Eyeing him suspiciously, I climb back under the covers. ' _Power nap my ass._ ' I mumble. ' _You need a solid week worth of sleep.'_

He chuckles softly and rests his head down on his pillow. I stare at him for a few moments.

'So, are you gonna change into your pyjamas or…?'

Keeping his eyes shut, he kicks both of his shoes off and declares nonchalantly: 'I usually sleep naked.'

Feeling my face heat up, I slowly lie back down. 'Ahh. That's…very good.' I cringe at my shocking awkwardness. 'You can get under the covers, I don't mind.' I turn to face him, noticing how thin the material of his shirt is. 'It is your bed, after all.' He seems to deliberate this for a second, before throwing the duvet cover up and sliding in underneath it.

' _Don't do that!_ It's _freezing_!' I gasp as the icy air stings my bare legs.

'Apologies.' Sherlock mumbles. We lay in silence for another 5 minutes before Sherlock speaks up. 'Audrey, if I wanted a vibrating bed I would have bought one. Can you _please_ stop shivering?'

' _I'm not doing it on purpose!_ ' I whisper, turning around so my back is facing him. I hear Sherlock sigh, and feel him scoot over towards me. ' _What are you doing_? _'_ I squeak, as Sherlock wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me in close to him.

'Keeping you warm.' He murmurs, resting his chin on my shoulder.

Silence.

'Sherlock Holmes…are you _spooning me_?'

'In the nicest possible way, please shut up Audrey.'

'Okay, I'm sorry.' I mumble.

'Thank you.'

'Goodnight Sherlock.'

Goodnight Audrey.'

…..

'Although _technically_ it's morni - '

' _Audrey._ '

'Alright, _alright_ , I'm sorry. Nighty night.'


	18. The Fox, The Hedgehog, And The Hound

 

I'll admit, I was just the _teensiest_ bit disappointed when I woke up the next morning and noticed the absence of Sherlock's gangly body curled up next to mine. Twisting around to gaze at the indent he made in the mattress, I smile in spite of myself, and do a little happy wriggle in my cocoon of cosiness. I mean, _of course_ I wasn't expecting a good morning-kiss on the forehead and a steaming cup of tea but still…

 _Oh for crying out loud, get a grip on yourself Audrey! You should be grateful for the fact that he willingly touched you! This is_ Sherlock _we're talking about_.

To be honest, I was just astounded that he even knew what _spooning_ was.

Humming cheerfully to myself, I hop out of bed and make my way towards the bathroom. Twisting the tap, I wait a few seconds for the water to heat up before pulling back the curtain and standing under the showerhead. ' _YaAH...ha..ha..hot…_ ' I hop from toe to toe as my body adjusts to the temperature. Squeezing an unhealthy dollop of lemon scented shower gel into my palm, I wash myself clean of all the scandalous thoughts my mind was conjuring up of myself and Sherlock.

 _Oh Audrey…you_ indecent _thing…_

If there was such thing as a God of Bad Timing, then I'm pretty sure he or she has made it their life's ambition to terrorize me. I say this because, the _exact_ moment a glob of shampoo nearly scalds my eyeballs from their sockets, is the _exact_ moment that Sherlock decides to barge into the bathroom, _drenched_ in blood and waving a harpoon around like psychotic Inuit.

' _SHERL- WHAT ARE YOU DO – IS THAT BLOOD!_?' I shriek unintelligibly, wrapping the shower curtain around my body while simultaneously rinsing my eyes out.

'Got into a spot of bother with a pig in…' He waves his hand casually. 'The details aren't important. However, I do need to wash the animal blood from my body so, if you please…' He gestures to the door with one hand while picking a bit of dried blood from his hair with the other.

Having successfully given life back to my eyeballs, I pull the curtain across and continue to rinse my hair. 'I'm sorry Sherlock, but it sounded like you just said you wanted to use the shower now? Would I be correct in saying that?'

'Mhmm.' He mumbles distractedly, as he unbuttons the top of his shirt.

'Okay. Hop in then.' I reply cheerfully.

I see his shadow through the curtain, as his hand drops from his shirt uncertainly. 'Wai – _What?_ ' It takes my absolute _everything_ to try and stifle the laugh that is threatening to burst out.

'You heard me.' I say, my voice shaking with suppressed giggles.

'But you're in th-'

'The shower?' I finish his sentence. 'Why yes, _thank you_ for noticing that, Sherlock. Now, if you wouldn't mind waiting outside like a _proper_ gentleman would-'

'No.' he replies defiantly, crossing his arms as I whip my head around the curtain to glare at him.

' _What did you just say?_ ' I hiss, my inner Gollum threatening to make an appearance.

'My house. My bathroom. My rules.'

I gape at him for a second, my temper beginning to rise. 'Are you – Sherlock, _I'm in the shower now!_ '

'But I'm covered in bloo-'

'I AM A LADY, SHERLOCK HOLMES!' I screech unintentionally loudly. Sherlock, realising he's took it a step to far, slowly backs out of the room, both hands held up in surrender. 'Good _God_ woman, don't _shriek_ at me like that.' He says in a rather appalled tone, before shutting the bathroom door with a _click_.

Astounded, I marvel at the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes. One minute, he's all romantic and protective and basically just… _lush_ , and the next minute you'd swear he's never had real human interaction before in his life!

I close my eyes and dramatically press my cheek to the tiled wall, imagining that the water droplets rolling down my face are tears.

(Now, don't look at me like that – We've _all_ done it before.)

' _Why?_ ' I whisper. ' _Why couldn't my soul mate have been Robert Downey Jr?_ '

* * *

'Oh no…Oh _there, there Henry_.' I lean forward and pat the young man's knee consolingly. 'You just tell us in your own time.'

'Yes but quite quickly.' Sherlock intones impatiently. Henry lowers the tissue he had pressed to his eyes. 'Dartmoor, Mr Holmes, it's an amazing place. It's like nowhere else. It's sort of ... bleak but beautiful.'

'Mmm, not interested. Moving on.' Sherlock waves his hand tiredly.

I throw Sherlock a venomous look and smile encouragingly at Henry, motioning for him to continue. 'We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor-'

'Yes, good.' Sherlock cuts across him. 'Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?'

' _Sherlock!_ ' I hiss at him, shaking my head disapprovingly while John slowly lowers his forehead into his hands. 'There's a place.' Henry continues, seemingly unfazed. 'It's a sort of local landmark called Dewer's Hollow.' Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, as if to say, ' _And?_ '

Henry leans forward, and says in a low voice, 'That's an ancient name for the Devil.'

' _Whaaat?_ ' I gasp dramatically, trying to make up for Sherlock's blatant disinterest. It seems to please Henry, who looks quite chuffed with himself for creating such a reaction.

John hides a smirk, and addresses Henry seriously. 'Did you see the Devil that night?

His face turns pale. *Cue flashback* ' _Yes._ ' His eyes look into the distance, as if watching something that we can't see. 'It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes.' His eyes begin to tear up again. ' _It got him, tore at him. Tore him apart.'_ He blinks, returning to the present. 'I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found.' His nose crinkles up a bit, as though he's about to start crying.

My heart breaks for the poor boy. I can understand the loss he's feeling. Hurrying over to his side I wrap my arms around his shoulders, squeezing them tightly. _'I'm so sorry you had to go through that alone, Henry_.' I whisper softly, so that the others don't hear. He lifts his head up to give me a small, teary-eyed smile.

'Hmm.' John says thoughtfully, breaking the silence. 'Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous: dog? Wolf?'

'Or a genetic experiment.' Sherlock tilts his head to the side, and bites back a smile. I narrow my eyes and throw him a " _Bitch I will cut you_ " kind of look.

'Are you laughing at me, Mr Holmes?' Henry asks defensively, glancing up at me.

Sherlock's expression turns serious. 'Why, are you joking?'

Henry, appearing quite offended, stands up and heads towards the door. 'I'm not sure you can help me, Mr Holmes, since you find it all so funny.'

'Because of what happened last night?' Sherlock asks casually, inspecting his fingernails. Henry turns back, baffled. 'How ... how do you know?'

'I didn't know; I noticed.'

John and I share an " _Oh dear lord, here we go_ " look.

'You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr Knight, and do please smoke. I'd be delighted.'

Henry stares at him, then glances across to John and me, as we simultaneously sigh and roll our eyes. Although secretly, I'm dying inside. Know-it-all Sherlock is the biggest turn-on I've ever fallen prey to in my entire life.

Hesitantly, Henry walks back to the chair and sits down, fishing around in his jacket pocket. 'How on _earth_ did you notice all that?'

'It's not important ...' John swiftly begins to steer the conversation in another direction but Sherlock's already off, reciting his spiel in an astonishingly accurate Hermoine Granger fashion. He points to two small, round, white pieces of paper stuck to Henry's coat. 'Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked...' Turning his attention to the napkin, he continues. 'The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich.'

Henry laughs in awe. 'How did you know it was disappointing?'

'Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?' Sherlock smiles to himself, as though he himself is amazed by his own cunning. 'The girl – female handwriting's quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers ... your shaking fingers. I know the signs.' His gaze becomes intense, bordering on creepy. 'No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here...'

He blinks suddenly, as if awakening from a daydream and glances at his watch. 'It's just after nine fifteen. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?'

Henry stares at him in amazement, then draws in a shaky breath. _'_ You're right. You're completely, exactly right! Bloody hell, I heard you were quick.'

Sherlock smiles smugly. 'It's my job.' He leans forward in his seat and glares at Henry, unblinking. 'Now shut up and smoke.' Taking out a roll-up, Henry pauses to turn to me before he lights it. 'Do you mind?'

_Bless his little soul for asking._

'No, not at all!' I quickly reply, for fear that Sherlock might rip my throat out if I denied him his second-hand smoke. John frowns at Sherlock's slightly quivering form. 'Um, Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old?'

Henry pauses before he answers, exhaling his first lungful of smoke. Sherlock stands up and steps closer to him. 'I know. That ... my ...' He stops as Sherlock leans into the smoke drifting out from Henry's mouth and breathes in deeply and noisily through his nose. Having sucked up most of the smoke, he sits down again and breathes out, whining quietly in pleasure.

I stare at him in either awe or disgust, I can't be too sure at this stage. I attempt to catch John's attention, but to no avail. He seems to be trying his absolute hardest to ignore him. 'That must be a ... quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this...'

John trails off as Henry exhales another lungful, and Sherlock dives in to noisily hoover up the smoke again. ' _Sher-Sherlock Holmes!_ ' I hiss at him. ' _Sit down. You're giving me second-hand embarrassment!_ '

Henry eyes Sherlock dubiously, and slowly turns back towards John. 'That's what Doctor Mortimer, my therapist, says.'

John sits forward in his seat, eager to make some sense of the case. 'What happened last night, Henry? What did you _see_?'

Henry's expression turns dark. 'Footprints. Footprints on the _exact_ spot where I saw my father torn apart.'

Sherlock, looking both exasperated and _slightly_ disappointed. 'No, sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr Knight. Thank you for smoking.' He leans forward in his seat and flicks his fingers at Henry, gesturing him towards the door. 'Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me.'

'Sherlock –' John begins to object, but I place my hand on his shoulder, giving him a pointed look. His eyes widen in understanding, and he nods.

Henry stares at Sherlock imploringly, shaking his head. 'Mr Holmes, you don't understand, they were the footprints of a _gigantic hound!_ ' Sherlock raises his head sharply, pauses for a fraction of a second, and then stands up.

'I'll take the case.'

* * *

After almost two hours of driving through the British countryside, we finally pull into the parking space of a quaint little B&B, on the outskirts of Grimpen Village. As we walk towards the entrance of the inn, we come across a gaggle of American tourists, earnestly listening to the young man giving the tour. Clearly, he's just about to finish up.

'…three times a day, tell your friends. Tell anyone!' He encourages the group as they wander inside the pub. Leaning his sign on the side of the wall, I catch a glimpse of it before we enter the inn.

'Beware the hound.' I mumble, reading it aloud. Sherlock turns his head to glance at the tour guide with a withering look. 'Ugh.' He groans. 'I hate youths.' I smirk up at him, finding myself in agreement with this opinion. 'You and me both, buddy.'

Don't get me wrong, I love my friends but, I've always seemed to have little patience for my peer group. Maybe I just mix better with older people? Like, older men, perhaps? With dark curly hair and cheekbones and blue –

 _Okay feel free to shut up now, Audrey_.

Once inside the surprisingly cosy and kitschy pub, we approach the check-in desk. 'Afternoon!' The cheerful, blonde barman greets us. 'How can I help?'

'Afternoon.' John replies with a polite smile. 'We'll be needing three rooms please.' The barman's face falls at this slightly. 'Oh, I'm afraid we only have two left. The beginning of spring is always such a busy time for us, what with all the Americans…' He trails off, consulting his reservation book. Sherlock sighs impatiently and checks his watch as I make eye contact with John, giving him an uneasy look. The barman looks up from the book and addresses us again. 'Okay, so we have one single room and one double left.' He glances from John to Sherlock. 'I'm sure you two will be wanting the double room.' John grimaces and his face begins to turn pink, while Sherlock glares affronted at the blonde man, who shrinks under his cold gaze.

'No, you are quite mistaken.' Sherlock quips. 'The double room is for us.' He wraps his arm around my waist as he says "us". I just nod quickly, unable to speak (or move) at this point in time. John raises his eyebrows at me, but remains quite. Though I swear I see him try to hide a smirk.

'Perfect.' The barman snaps the book shut and moves towards the computer. 'And how would you like to pay?'

'John's credit card.' Sherlock and I reply simultaneously. John throws us both a filthy look before reluctantly pulling his wallet out.

 _Hah. That wiped the smirk off his face_.

'Ta.' The barman plucks the gold card from John's hand. Looking over his shoulder, he calls to the brown-haired man in the back room. 'Billy, can you show our new guests to their rooms please.'

Billy puts down the crate of beer he had been carrying and walks towards the counter. 'I will of course.' Smiling warmly at us he takes two sets of keys from the board behind and beckons us to follow him. Sherlock's hand travels up my side and arm, so that it is draped leisurely over my shoulder. I glance up at him confusedly, and he replies with a raised eyebrow, as if to say ' _Problem?_ '. Feeling rather delighted with myself, we follow Billy through one of the doors to the right of the room.

'Now, the single room for Mister..?' He waits for John to reply as he unlocks the bedroom.

'Watson. John Watson.' John smiles and takes a step inside his room. Before I get a glance inside his temporary living quarters, Billy swishes past us and calls behind. 'Come on, then.' Sherlock and I exchange a look before following the overly-enthusiastic man. Taking us up a small flight of stairs, he stops in front of the first of two possible bedrooms. 'This is my favourite.' He whispers dramatically. 'The view is to die for.'

'Doubtful.' Sherlock murmurs.

'Oooh!' I squeal in spite of myself as I walk in. The room is fairly big and bright, with two sets of mahogany wardrobes on either side of the King-sized (Well, not _quite_ ) bed. A vanity table stands in front of the large, south-facing bay window (I can confirm that the view is, in fact, _to die for_ ) and a small door to the right of the bed leads to the en suite. Hanging on the wall above the bed frame is a black and white canvas print of Charlie Chaplin, donning his iconic bowler hat, moustache and cane combo.

Sighing appreciatively at our cosy lodgings, I turn to face Billy. 'It's perfect! Thank you.' He grins in return and heads towards the door, stopping to mumble something at Sherlock before he leaves. Sherlock smiles tightly in response, and quickly snaps the door shut behind him.

'What did he say, Sherlock?'

Sherlock looks at me with wide eyes before waving his hand nonchalantly. 'Oh, it was nothing.'

Had this been different circumstances, I would have tortured the information from him. But…There was still a bathroom to be explored…So I brushed it off and bounced over to explore said bathroom. ' _Oh_!' I gasp as I set my eyes on the Victorian-style clawfoot bathtub in the centre of the room. 'Oh Sherlock, come look at the bath!' His head pops around the doorframe a few seconds later.

'Hmm.' He eyes it suspiciously. 'Might require a _slight_ _squeeze_ to fit in…'

I bumble back into the bedroom, and test out the bed's squishy:firm ratio. 'Dibs on the right side of the bed!' I shout at Sherlock, who is currently attempting to fit himself into the tub. 'Seems fair.' He calls back after a minute or so. 'It is highly unlikely that I'll be doing much sleeping for the next three days.'

' _You can bet your ass we won't be doing much sleep –'_

'What was that?' Sherlock materializes beside me, sending my heart into raging palpitations.

'Nothing.' I mumble, shimmying myself off the bed. Kneeling down to unzip my suitcase, I sort through the clothes until I find the silver photo frame. Gazing at it fondly, I place a kiss on the glass and set it on the bedside table. Sherlock squints at the photo for a split second before letting out an exasperated, 'Oh for the love of _God_!'

'What?' I reply indignantly.

'You know, I'm not even surprised.' He attempts to keep a serious face before shaking his head. 'Only _you_ would bring a framed photo of your cat, Audrey.' He looks at me affectionately for another few seconds before he realises what he's doing. Rising up from his side of the bed, he strides towards the door.

'Well come along then. This case isn't going to solve itself.'

* * *

Thirty minutes later we pull up just outside the gates of Baskerville. I notice quite a few military personnel guarding the building, and others walking around the perimeter. A security guard holding a rifle raises his hand, and walks around to the driver's window.

'Pass, please.'

Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and hands him the access-all-areas pass he stole from Mycroft's office last week.

'Thank you.' The guard replies sharply and walks away.

I tap my foot against the floor of the jeep nervously, trying not to make eye contact with any of the guards. John glances back and gently pats my knee.

The security guard swipes the card through a reader at the gate room. I crane my neck to get a look at the screen. A small photograph of Mycroft pops up, as well as showing his status as "Secure". The gates begin to slide open as the security guard approaches the jeep.

'Clear.' He hands Sherlock the pass. 'Thank you very much, sir.'

I breathe a sigh of relief as Sherlock drives smoothly through the gates. The main complex is a rather intimidating building, with masses of barbed wire wrapped around the top of the bordering walls. Once the car is parked we make haste to the entrance, stopping when a military jeep slams to a halt in front of us, and a young corporal jumps out. Hurrying over to us, he looks rather disgruntled.

'What is it? Are we in trouble?'

Sherlock frowns before he addresses the young man sternly. "Are we in trouble, _sir_."

I all but swoon.

'Yes, sir, sorry, sir.' The corporal corrects himself and takes a step in front of us, holding out his hands to prevent us getting nearer to the entrance. 'Your ID showed up straight away, Mr Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security.' He introduces himself. 'Is there something wrong, sir?'

'Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not.' Sherlock shakes his head in mock-seriousness.

'It's just we don't get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn't happen.'

'Ever heard of a spot check?' John intones. He then takes a small wallet from his pocket and shows his ID to the corporal. 'Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.' Even before he finishes speaking, Lyons comes to attention and salutes. I almost squeal out loud with proudness, but settle for clasping my hands together and grinning like an idiot.

The grins falters from my face though, when all eyes are suddenly on me, waiting for an introduction. I glance at Sherlock, panicking slightly. 'Hello, I'm…uh…'

'Audrey. My fiancé.' Sherlock finishes for me. Both John and the corporal stare incredulously at him, while I manage an almost-convincing smile. I notice the corporal glancing down at my hands, obviously observing their lack of an engagement ring. 'Oh, yes.' I laugh, in a hopefully blasé tone. 'We only became engaged last Sunday, you see. We haven't got around to going ring shopping yet.' I continue to smile cheerfully at him.

Lyons looks as though he's about to say something to Sherlock, before he suddenly turn back towards me. 'I'm sorry, _how_ old are you?'

'Twenty-one.' I reply defensively. 'Twenty-two this June.'

'I'm afraid we won't have time for pleasantries.' John interjects. 'We'll need the full tour right away. Carry on.'

Lyons hesitates.

'That's an _order,_ Corporal.'

'Yes, sir.' Lyons immediately stands to attention and leads us through the entrance. He walks a few paces ahead of us, giving us some time to quickly and quietly confer.

' _Fiancé,_ Sherlock? _Really_?' I hiss at him. He glances down at me, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. 'I thought you'd be pleased.' I gape at him, trying and failing to disagree with him. ' _Well, that's not the point_.' I finally manage to get out. John also seems to be finding this most amusing. 'Stop it, you... _That's an order_.' I repeat his words with a smile.

'Yes nice touch, that.' Sherlock adds.

John appears quite chuffed with himself. 'Haven't pulled rank in ages.'

Reaching the door at the end of the corridor, Lyons swipes his pass. The doors slide opens and reveal an elevator on the other side. We take it down to the third floor, stepping out into what appears to be a brightly lit laboratory. As we move forward, various staff dressed in white coveralls with full breathing masks walk around the lab. As Lyons leads the way past them, a caged monkey screams and hurls itself at the bars towards us. I shriek in fright, clutching the side of Sherlock's coat.

And I swear to God, every single worker in that room simultaneously stop what they're doing to look at me. The lab is silent, save for the occasional beeping from some machine.

I wince at my shocking girly-ness. ' _Sorry…_ '

I then make a vow of silence to myself.

At the far end of the lab, a scientist wearing coveralls takes his mask off and approaches our group. 'Don't be embarrassed.' He consoles me kindly. 'George's always giving people frights.' He looks at the monkey fondly. 'Only happened to me last week!'

I smile at him gratefully. The man stares for a few more seconds before Lyons introduces us. 'Sorry, Doctor Frankland. This is Mr. Holmes and his fiancé, and Captain Watson. I'm just showing them around.'

'Ah, I see. Careful you don't get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap!' Chuckling to himself, he continues past us and towards the elevator. Lyons leads us through the door and into another lab, where _another_ monkey is standing up on a high metal table. A female scientist looks at it and then turns to her colleague.

'Okay, Michael, let's try Harlow Three next time.'

As she walks away from the table, Lyons approaches her. 'Doctor Stapleton.'

' _Stapleton_.' Sherlock whispers thoughtfully to himself.

'Yes?' She looks at Sherlock, John and I. 'Who's this?'

'Priority Ultra, ma'am. Orders from on high. An inspection.'

'We're to be accorded every courtesy, Doctor Stapleton.' Sherlock addresses her haughtily. 'What's your role at Baskerville?'

Stapleton looks at him and snorts with disbelieving laughter. 'I'm not free to say. Official secrets.'

Sherlock smiles tightly at her. 'Oh, you most certainly are free.'

She looks at him for a moment before speaking. 'I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up – genes, mostly; now and again actual fingers -'

Sherlock's eyes widen, as though a lightbulb has _dinged_ above his head, and is reaching into his pocket before she finishes the sentence.

'Stapleton. I knew I recognised your name.' He holds up his notebook to her on which he has written a single large word: "BLUEBELL". She stares at it in amazement while Sherlock watches her face closely.

'Have you been talking to my daughter?'

Sherlock stows the notebook away. 'Why did Bluebell have to die, Doctor Stapleton?'

John looks at Sherlock bewilderedly. 'The rabbit?'

'The glow-in-the-dark rabbit.' I correct him, before I realise I've spoken aloud. Stapleton narrows her eyes suspiciously at me.

'Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive.'

Stapleton pulls a pretty impressive poker face. 'I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Who are you?'

Ignoring her and checking his watch, Sherlock turns to Lyons. 'Well, I think we've seen enough for now, Corporal. Thank you so much.' Taking my hand, he briskly strides back towards the elevator, pulling me behind him. Sherlock's phone dings a text, and he scoffs as he reads it. 'Twenty-three minutes. You're getting slow, Mycroft.' Reaching the lift doors, he swipes his card, Lyons following in suit. The doors open, revealing Doctor Frankland standing inside, as if he has been waiting. Trying to look nonchalant, he smiles at us

'Hello ... again.'

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Sherlock steps into the lift. When we reach the ground floor, the doors open again and reveal a _very grumpy_ looking bearded man in military uniform.

'This is bloody outrageous.' He shouts at Lyons. 'Why wasn't I told?' Sherlock slips past him, dragging me along with John following closely behind. Barrymore strides after us. 'The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense...'

'I'm so sorry, Major.' Sherlock calls back emotionlessly. 'New policy. Can't remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you'd get up to.' He lowers his voice and whispers urgently to John and I. ' _Keep walking_.'

Lyons suddenly stops and slaps a red button on the wall. Alarms start to blare, red lights flash and the automated security door locks itself. 'ID unauthorised, sir.'

' _What?_ ' Barrymore spits.

'I've just had the call.'

Barrymore turns to Sherlock, John and I. ' _Who are you?_ '

A little further back, I notice Doctor Frankland slowly walking towards us, looking thoughtful. I sigh in relief.

_Well, at least you did something right in the book, Doctor Frankland._

'It's all right, Major.' He explains reassuringly. 'I know exactly who these people are.'

'You do?' Barrymore asks disbelievingly.

'Yeah. I'm getting a little slow on faces but Mr Holmes here isn't someone I expected to show up in this place.' He smiles knowingly at Sherlock before extending his hand. 'Good to see you again, Mycroft.'

John tries to mask his surprise as Sherlock takes Frankland's hand, smiling falsely.

'I had the honour of meeting Mr Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in…' He pretends to think. '…Brussels, was it?'

'Vienna.' Sherlock corrects him. Frankland continues to smile as his gaze falls on me. 'And may I offer my congratulations on your engagement.' I smile widely at him, before realising that Sherlock and I aren't _actually_ engaged, and tone it down a little.

'Thank you.' I reply politely.

'This is Mr Mycroft Holmes, Major.' Frankland says, turning to Barrymore. 'There's obviously been a mistake.'

Barrymore turns and nods to Lyons, who goes back to the alarm and switches it off. A moment later the entrance door's lock disengages noisily.

'On your head be it, Doctor Frankland.' Barrymore says sharply before striding from the room.

'I'll show them out, Corporal.' Frankland laughs and addresses Lyon, who nods and follows Major Barrymore.

Sherlock spins on his heel and walks towards the now open entrance door. John and I follow him while Frankland trots behind. Sherlock throws him a " _Why are you so obsessed with me?"_ kind of look before speaking. '…Thank you.'

'This is about Henry Knight, isn't it?' Frankland eyes him excitedly.'I know who you really are, you're Sherlock Holmes! I'm never off your website. Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though.'

Sherlock grimaces as I snigger, images of that heinous deerstalker flashing before my eyes. 'That wasn't my hat.'

Frankland ignores him, turning to speak to John, who attempts to bite back a smile. 'I hardly recognise him without the hat!'

' _It wasn't my hat_.' Sherlock repeats through gritted teeth.

'I love the blog too, Doctor Watson.' John smiles at this, surprised but clearly pleased. 'Cheers.'

Frankland turns his attention towards me. 'But I'm afraid I don't know your name, Miss…?'

'Audrey. Dubois.' I reply, reaching my hand out to grasp his. 'But soon to be Holmes.' He remarks, gently shaking my hand. I nod enthusiastically, deciding to play along and really milk it. 'Yeah, we're going to have a winter wedding.' I glance up at Sherlock earnestly and continue. 'Both of us aren't really into summer and...well... _heat_ , I suppose. And my parents were planning on visiting in December anyway so, it's ideal.' I take Sherlock's hand in mine and squeeze/hug his arm with the other.

Frankland smiles pleasantly and reaches into his pocket, handing a small card to Sherlock. 'Here's my cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call.'

'I never did ask, Doctor Frankland…' Sherlock begins conversationally. 'What exactly is it that you do here?'

'Oh, Mr Holmes, I would love to tell you – but then, of course, I'd have to kill you!' He laughs cheerfully.

Sherlock deadpans. 'That would be tremendously ambitious of you.'

 _Oh snap_.

'Tell me about Doctor Stapleton.' He continues.

'Never speak ill of a colleague.'

'Yet you'd speak well of one, which you're clearly omitting to do.' Sherlock observes. Raising the card, he begins to turn away. 'I'll be in touch.'

'Any time.' Frankland waves his hand and heads back towards the lab.

'So, what was all that about the rabbit?' John asks Sherlock once we reach the Land Rover. Smiling briefly, Sherlock pulls his coat tighter around him, flipping the collar up to activate full ponce mode. John rolls his eyes and turns to him. 'Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?'

'Do what?'

'You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.'

' _Aha!_ ' I bark out a rather unattractive laugh. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but is so disconcerted that for a moment he can't find the words.

' _Can it be?_ ' I ask in mock wonder. ' _Sherlock Holmes…Speechless?_ '

Finding his voice again, he turns towards me incredulously. 'You're one to talk – " _Yes we're going to have a winter wedding..."_ ' He makes his voice go all high pitched and girly as he says this.

' _Oh shut up_!' Feeling my face flush with embarrassment, I hastily jump into the jeep. Chuckling to himself, Sherlock takes his seat behind the wheel. Twisting back to face me, his expression turns serious.

'Good choice, though. I would have picked winter too.'


	19. Not My Division 62

' _No, no Audrey, release the handbrake you're going to_ -' The jeep slams to a halt. ' _Stall_.' Sherlock finishes with a groan. I look at him apologetically and restart the engine, while John cackles in the seat behind us. Sherlock has his index finger and thumb pressed firmly on the bridge of his nose, and is softly counting back from ten.

'Okay but in my defence, I've only done like, _five_ lessons…' I attempt to justify my appalling driving skills. 'And these country roads are so… _bumpy_ …' I trail off as Sherlock inhales loudly and opens his door. 'I think I'll take it from here.' I swiftly scoot over to the passenger's side as Sherlock settles in behind the steering wheel. Turning to hide my frown, I stare out the window.

 _I mean for once it would be nice not to make a bumbling idiot of myself._ I sigh wistfully and begin plaiting tiny strands of my hair. After a few more moments of silence, Sherlock clears his throat.

'I could teach you, when we get back to London.' He glances at me, raising his eyebrows. 'If you wish.' I gawk rudely at him for a second, taken-aback by the thoughtful gesture, and then grin widely, nodding my head. 'That's very nice of you, Sherlock.' He shrugs in response, staring straightforward. I dip my head to try and hide my smug smirk.

 _You're changing him, Audrey_.

I lift my head to peep up at him fondly when _BAM_ , his hand slams down onto the horn, producing an obnoxious _BEEEEEEEP._ I jolt in shock, my eyes widening.

' _Jesus effing Christ.'_ John utters weakly as the car in front of us gradually begins to speed up.

'Moron.' Sherlock scowls darkly at the rear of the vehicle. I shake my head disbelievingly

_You know what? Scratch that last thought._

* * *

' _Mother of pearl_.' I whisper appreciatively as we stand outside the mansion that is Henry Knight's house. It's enormous – all four storeys of it. We walk through the large, old-fashioned glass conservatory attached to the rear of the building. Sherlock raises his hand to ring the doorbell, but before his finger comes into contact the button, the door is hastily wrenched open, revealing a slightly flustered Henry.

'Hello. Come in, come in.' He promptly waves us inside the hallway and marches towards the kitchen. Sherlock briskly follows suit while John and I take in the beautiful interior, gaping open-mouthed like a pair of your average, run-of-the-mill plebeians.

' _Wait, hold on_.' I whisper and pull John back. ' _I've gotta snapchat this._ ' Whipping out my phone, I expertly snap a selfie of a wide-eyed John pointing to an expensive looking bone china vase.

'Who's " _not_my_division62_ "?' John asks while I scroll through my contacts.

'Greg Lestrade.'

'Ahh.'

* * *

Henry hands me a steaming mug of coffee once I've settled myself behind the marble island in the centre of the kitchen. I smile at him and gracefully dump six spoonfuls of sugar into the cup, stirring vigorously. Henry blinks rapidly at me before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

'What now, then?'

'Sherlock's got a plan.' John replies encouragingly.

Sherlock nods solemnly. 'Yes. We take you back out onto the moor ...'

'Okay ...' Henry nervously waits for Sherlock to continue.

'... and see if anything attacks you.'

'What?!' John exclaims, choking a bit on his coffee.

Ignoring his spluttering friend, Sherlock finishes the sentence. 'That should bring things to a head.'

'At night?' Henry asks hoarsely. 'You want me to go out there _at night_?

'Mmhm.'

'That's your plan!?' John snorts with laughter. _'Brilliant_.'

Sherlock glances at me in disbelief before turning to John. 'Got any better ideas?'

John, still chuckling, shakes his head. 'That's not a plan.'

'Listen, if there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives.' He looks round to Henry and smiles widely at him before taking another drink from his mug.

Henry does not look encouraged by this.

I sigh loudly. 'Forgive me lord for what I am about to say but… I think Sherlock's got a point.' Sherlock smirks triumphantly at John and Henry. 'If this monster is actually real and not a figment of old Henry's imagination, then we need the proof.'

I notice that Henry's face has turned a worrying shade of grey, so I scoot over to him and squeeze his hand. 'We'll be with you the whole time, Henry. Nothing bad is going to happen. Trust me.'

* * *

'Alright men, listen up.' I pace back and forth in front of Sherlock, Henry and John, hands clasped behind my back. We are standing on the outskirts of the forest leading to Dewer's Hollow. 'If you would kindly look to the left you will see the backpacks I have provided for each of you. Inside said backpacks you will find a walkie-talkie, plasters, a hunting knife, woolly socks, a flashlight, and a flask of tea.' I hand a bag to each of them.

Sherlock peers inside his rucksack and begins to snigger.

'Something funny, Mr Holmes?'

'Yes.'

'Yes, _ma'am_.'

He narrows his eyes at me and pulls the knife from his bag. 'This is a butter knife.'

I stare at the silver object impassively. 'And?'

'I couldn't even harm a comatose leaf with this.'

Ignoring him, I pull my own walkie-talkie from my back pocket and run through the rules. 'From now on, we will be using code names. You may address me as Eagle One. Sherlock, code name – Dat ass. Henry – It happened once in a dream. John is – … Eagle Two.'

' _Oh thank God._ ' I hear John mumble in relief.

'Right gang.' I heave my own rucksack onto my back. 'Let's Scooby Doo this biatch.'

* * *

We trudge through the undergrowth, me taking the lead and John bringing up the rear. A round compass sits in my left hand, and a torch is clutched tightly in the my right.

The compass is just for effect, though.

I have no fucking clue where we're going.

Sherlock catches up to me in two strides, and glances sideways.

'You would have told us if there actually was a monster, wouldn't you, Audrey.'

I smirk, knowing the suspense must be killing him. Shoving the compass back in my pack, I take my time answering.

'Well… let's put it this way: I wouldn't not tell you if I wasn't unsure of the fact that they're very probably may not be the possibility of a giant hound.' I grin sweetly at him.

'Good god, you're turning into me.' He grumbles.

A fox screams somewhere in the darkness, and I shudder involuntarily. Sherlock, noticing my discomfort, takes a step closer to me and discreetly takes my hand in his. I cheerfully gaze down at our interlocked fingers, resisting the urge to swing my arms.

We continue walking in silence for the next few minutes, when John calls Sherlock back.

'Wait, hold up. I think I can see something over there – a flashlight, maybe?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes and quickens his pace. 'We don't have time, John. I'm sure it's just some tourists.'

Slowly pulling my hand from his, I wave Sherlock on ahead of me. 'You and Henry continue, I'll stay with John.' Sherlock frowns, his eyes flickering around the dark forest. 'Are you sure?' I nod and smile. 'Alright then…' He reluctantly takes a step forward. 'But if you're not in Dewer's Hollow in ten minutes I'll send Scotland Yard after you.'

I chuckle at this. 'Wouldn't put it past you.' Sherlock gives me one final look before beckoning Henry to follow him. I hurry back towards John, who is scribbling something down in his notepad.

'…U.M.Q.R.A…umqra?' He looks at me quizzically, tapping the pen against his chin.

I shrug and put on my best bewildered expression. 'Doesn't ring any bells.' I turn away to hide my smirk and have a very one-sided internal battle with myself.

_Should I tell him?_

…

_Nah._

Flipping his notebook shut, John heads off in the direction of the other two, me following in hot pursuit. We walk in comfortable silence for the first few minutes, before John speaks up.

'So…You and Sherlock…'

He looks at me pointedly.

'Yes? Care to elaborate on that ground-breaking statement?'

'Are you, uh…' He clears his throat awkwardly. '…together?'

I fix my gaze on the footpath ahead of us. '…No.' Glancing up at him, I shrug nonchalantly. 'Why? …Has he said anything to you?'

John shakes his head, and I try my best to hide my disappointment.

'Although,' He continues. 'He did say something the night before we left for Baskerville.'

I perk up at this, staring at him with what I can imagine as a slightly manic look in my eyes. 'Yes? What was it? What did he say?'

John opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly spins around as something large flashes past behind him. I yelp in fright, and throw myself at his chest.

' _What the fucking fuck was that?_ '

'I have no fucking clue.' John glances around the perimeter of the pathway, pulling me close and tucking me under his arm. Our pace speeds up considerably as we try to catch up to the others. A few seconds later, an anguished howling sound rings through the silence.

' _Oh hell no! This is some fucking werewolf-Lupin shit going on right here_.'

John breaks into a run and pulls me after him. 'C'mon, the others could be in danger.' Racing through the dense undergrowth, I don't even have time to register when my body runs smack bang into a solid wall, and I land straight onto my bottom. I look up to see a dazed Sherlock, his face chalk-white.

'Sherlock!' I jump back up and grab both of his hands. 'What is it? What's wrong?' I press my palm against his cheek. 'Why are you so pale?' He doesn't answer, only shuts his eyes, and continues to breathe heavily.

'We saw it.' Henry's voice is barely audible. ' _We saw it_.'

At Henry's words, Sherlock's eyes fly open, cold fury flashing through them. I take a step back in surprise.

' _No_.' Sherlock spits and storm past us. ' _We didn't see anything._ '

Henry mouths wordlessly, confusion etched across his features. 'What is he – Yes, yes we did see something…' He trails of, staring at John and I imploringly.

* * *

I sigh loudly and check the time.

Yep, just as I suspected – 3.01 am.

So one minute has passed since I last checked my phone.

Fascinating.

Just as I place the phone back on the bedside locker, the door handle slowly begins to turn. Twisting around so that I'm facing away from light, I pretend to be sleeping. Sherlock quietly shuffles into the room and sits down at the edge of the bed. The mattress squeaks slightly. He mumbles something while he pulls his shoes off, and the swings his legs up to settle on top of the bed. I try to keep my breathing as regular as possible.

'Audrey, I know you're awake.'

 _Dammit_.

'No I'm not.'

'You've just spoken.'

'Ever heard of sleep talking?'

Sherlock sighs and remains silent. I reluctantly twist around to face him, in no mood to be at the receiving end of one of his tantrums. Though surprisingly, he appears rather calm.

'Do you want to talk about what happened in the forest?' I ask tentatively.

'Already did. With John.' He frowns for a second. 'Well, we shouted about it, really.' He sighs once more and rubs his eyes. 'Every time I close my eyes I see it. This great, red-eyed hound, snarling and snapping its jaws. My mind simply can't process it – I _don't want_ to process it.' His voice has become so low; a whisper, almost. He turns his head to look into my eyes. 'It's not possible. _How is it possible_?' His voice cracks on the last syllable.

' _Oh Sherlock_.' I shimmy over to him and take his hand in mine, squeezing it gently. It takes all but five seconds to make up my mind.

'There is no hound. Never was, never will be.' He blinks at me, startled.

'I promised myself I would _never_ tell you a _single thing_ about solving your cases. Who knows what could happen if I changed the storyline…' I trail off as Sherlock sits up against the headrest, pulling me into an upright position as well. 'But it makes me sad to see you sad.' I finish, shrugging my shoulders. Sherlock doesn't say anything, he just continues to stare at me.

'Sherlock? Did you hear me? I said the hound isn't re – ' Sherlock places a finger on my lips, silencing me.

'You…feel sad?'

_Seriously? That's what he's taking away from this?_

His finger is still pressed firmly against my mouth, so I roll my eyes and make a strange sound at the back of my throat. Sherlock, realising that I want to say something, pulls his hand away, and it takes everything not to touch my now tingling lips.

'Well, not anymore. But I didn't like seeing you so upset.'

Sherlock's expression softens at this, before his eyes light up and he exclaims a very loud, ' _Aha!_ '

' _Shhh! There are people sleeping!_ '

 _'Hallucinogens_.' Sherlock lowers his voice. 'That's what gave me the vision in the woods, yes?'

I narrow my eyes, shaking my head slightly. 'Nope, I'm not giving you any more hints. You're on your own from here.'

'But the hound doesn't exist?' Sherlock verifies, seemingly unperturbed by my refusal.

'Yes.' I clarify. 'The hound does not exist.'

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief and rests his head against the bed-frame. He remains silent for a few seconds before lifting his head and peering straight into my soul. 'Thank you, Audrey.'

'Oh, don't worry about it.' I wave my hand casually. 'To be honest, I'm just glad I didn't have to witness your bitch fit earlier thi – W-what are you doing?' I stutter as I notice Sherlock bending his head closer to mine. He gently catches my chin between his thumb and index finger, and tilts my head upwards. _'I want to try something._ ' he murmurs, his soft breath tickling my face. Closing the distance between us, he presses his lips against mine. I stay rigid for a second, utterly dumbfounded over what has just occurred.

It takes all but nought to sixty seconds for my body to respond.

Pushing myself closer, I lean into the kiss, and place the palms of my hands against his chest. Half-expecting him to pull away, I make an almost inaudible squeaking sound when his other hand snakes around my waist, pulling me into him. His fingers brush upwards over my cheek, past my ears, and through my hair, until my head is firmly secured in place. He opens his mouth then, deepening the kiss and, somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder how much longer my heart can take this before I go into cardiac arrest.

His mouth begins to soften against mine, his movements slower. When we finally break apart, my vision is literally swimming.

' _Woah…_ ' I breathe, feeling all lightheaded and mushy.

Sherlock chuckles deeply, shifting his weight so that we're half sitting, half lying down against the pillows. I timidly rest my head against his chest, still unsure of how to act around him.

'You know,' I begin quietly, a small though nagging at the back of my mind. 'I never thought you were like this.'

Sherlock pauses the circles he had been tracing against my back, and I fear for a second that I've upset him. But he answers calmly.

'What do you mean?'

_What's the easiest way of telling someone you though they were asexual?_

'I just mean,' I tilt my head upwards so that my eyes meet his. 'You're surprisingly affectionate.'

He doesn't reply, but he does continue to caress my back.

Worried that I've offended him, I begin to babble apologetically.

'Not that you're not affectionate! Of course you are, in your own way. I just mean that sometimes you can come across as – '

'Audrey _._ ' Sherlock gently cuts me off. 'I'm not offended _._ ' Nodding contentedly I lay my head back down onto his chest.

Then I frown.

'Have you had any supper?'

Sherlock quirks his brow, and smirks slightly. 'No, I didn't have the time.'

I sit upright again and swing my legs over the bed, hopping down. Tip-toeing over to my rucksack, I pull out a flapjack.

'Eat.' I command him once I've re-settled myself by his side. Giving me his best drama queen sigh, he reluctantly opens the flapjack and nibbles one of the corners.

Lying back down alongside him, I absentmindedly play with my hair while listening to his munches.

_Maybe being trapped here isn't so bad after all..._


End file.
